


Gipsy Cafe

by Sonora



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Cooking, Crack and Angst, Family Drama, Family Feels, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-06 08:37:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5410223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonora/pseuds/Sonora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his mom's death, Yancy's struggling to keep her cafe open and his family afloat.  But when Jaz lands them a spot on Restaurant Rescue, the Hansens' extremely popular reality show, his life gets a hell of a lot more complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first thing Yancy says when he hangs up the phone is:

“I’m going to kill Jaz for this.”

“No you’re not,” Raleigh - all too sensibly - points out from his perch on the counter, hands wrapped around a mug of watery coffee. “She’s right. We need this.”

“They’re going to be here in like an hour! The producers didn’t give us any notice...”

“Course they didn’t. Probably want the walk-in to be a friggin’ mess so Chef Hansen can rip you a new one.” And Raleigh grins. “He’s pretty hot, bro.”

“Which one?” Yancy replies without thinking, still watching his oven like a hawk. It’s not great, a cast-off from downstairs, and he doesn’t trust it. Usually eyeballs everything he bakes in it.

“Well, technically Herc runs everything...”

“Younger Hansen’s still a chef,” Yancy grumbles. “Like, with the title and everything. The better chef between the, actually.”

“You’re a chef.”

“No, I’m not, and don’t you dare call me that in front of the cameras,” Yancy groans, and cracks the oven door to get a better look at the scones. Not one of Mama’s recipes - she’d raise hell if she caught Yancy baking American-style, when she took all that time in her last months to make sure he understood the proper French way of doing things - but he doesn’t always have time to make croissants. Especially not these days. Cheap and filling, that’s all he’s after. “Let’s not make this worse than it already is going to be.”

The tops look perfect. He gestures Raleigh away, reaching for a spatula. 

“Come on bro,” Raleigh says, moving only a fraction of an inch to the side, “it’s reality TV, so it’s going to be real. No way we’re as incompetent as some of those people.”

The scone bottoms are a perfect pale gold, and he pulls the tray from the oven. They look pretty good, homemade jam swirled through clear to the outside, nice chunks of walnuts showing in the crust. Sam’s Club had some good deals on nuts last week. Since Mama died, all this household stuff’s fallen on his shoulders. Not like his dad is doing jack shit about them.

“I’d rather be incompetent than maliciously uncaring,” Yancy grumbles, and plunks breakfast down on the stove top. “You only get to be one or the other on that show.”

“They can’t paint us to be the bad guys,” Raleigh says earnestly. “Not after what happened.”

“I told you, we should have just closed the place,” Dad says, plunking down at the kitchen table, the bags under his eyes even more pronounced than usual. 

Without any prompting at all, Raleigh pours him a cup of coffee; Yancy plates a scone. He hates the inversion of roles here. Right after the funeral, he didn’t mind taking care of his father so much, but now? It’s infuriating, is what it is.

“Why? Mama was proud of her roots and she didn’t see a problem with it.”

Yancy squints at his scones, wondering how badly this is going to go. Chefs Hansen and Hansen are going to positively destroy them today. 

There’s no way the Hansens are going to like his cooking. Those two have twenty-five Michelin stars at ten restaurants spread between Sydney, London, New York and LA. Best he’s done was get a four-star review from the university paper back when it first opened, and oh, how things have changed since then. And he knows damn well he’s not living up to Mama’s standards. Nowhere close. He’s been so overwhelmed...

 _No excuses_ , he reminds himself. Last thing he wants to be is one of those fuckheads who keep insisting everything’s fine.

“You want me to double-check the walk-in?”

“Not a chance, Rals. You and Jaz need to get to school.” He risks a glance over at Dad, wondering if... but naw, the old man’s in no shape to be driving. Least it was their own bar stock he was into last night. “Can you take her today?”

Raleigh’s looking at Dad too. “I don’t have to go to class today,” he says quietly. “Might be better if I’m here. Let Dad sleep it off, have me to the interviews with you?”

“You know how many people put in for the show,” Yancy replies in kind, pitching his voice below - hopefully - what Dad’s fogged-up, hung-over brain can catch. “The producer I spoke to on the phone didn’t get into specifics, but Jaz had to tell them something to get us past the initial screening.”

“Then you really shouldn’t be dealing with this alone.”

“Mama would kill me if I let you drop out of college. Go get Jaz up, will ya?”

+++++

Everyone in the whole damn country knows the basic format of Restaurant Rescue. Herc Hansen, one of the most successful restauranteurs in the world, and his son Chuck, the youngest chef in history to receive a Michelin star, only fifteen, spend a week tearing crap restaurants apart in the hopes of saving them. Unlike that earlier predecessor, Kitchen Nightmares, more time is spent on the cooking and business end of things, less time given to the drama and the yelling and the rage and the family drama.

But it’s Herc and Chuck Hansen.

There’s always plenty of rage. 

And family issues.

And yeah, Yancy's done his homework. When Jaz - beaming - had announced at dinner a couple weeks ago that she’s written into the show and they’d been selected, Yancy had done as much research as he could before (talking Dad into) accepting the offer.

A simple Internet search for THE CHEFS HANSEN turns up a wide number of articles about their restaurants, their TV shows, people bitching about their restaurants and TV shows, and the occasional celebrity rag profile piece. A more targeted search, however, brings up blog posts on everything from Scott Hansen’s arrest to that Rolling Stone article about Angela Hansen’s death in a house fire, along with some rumors about Herc and Chuck fucking. Fan-art of it. 

Some of that fan-art is very good. Bad for Yancy’s horrifically neglected libido, but very nice art.

Really, though, he’s got no idea what to expect.

They need something though, if they’re going to save Gipsy Cafe. Besides, the chance to actually meet _Herc Hansen_ , industry legend (and serious DILF), is too tempting to pass up.

On a normal day, Yancy will drag his ass out of bed around five am to open the cafe at six. Back when Mama was still alive, he’d get up at four to help her with all the baking. He doesn’t do as much of it anymore, especially since he can’t move the same volume of pastries, but he still tries to have a few things for the cases. This morning, however, the production company representative - Mako something - asked him if he could stay closed until lunch, for the chefs’ arrival.

“We need to do our preliminary interviews,” she’d told him on the phone.

Which is where he is right now, nervously fidgeting as a microphone is pinned to his shirt by that same woman. They don’t have him in front of a blue screen or anything, which he’s always wondered about. The backdrop is his cafe, the chair he’s sitting at one of his own, a steaming mug of his own coffee in front of him as a prop, and it should all settle him, but it doesn’t. 

Dad already did his pre-lim interview. Mako hadn’t allowed Yancy in the room, and all Dad told him was _you better be sure about this shit helping._ Yancy could vomit, he’s so nervous. But this really is the last chance he has to save what’s left of his mama's legacy, and he’s not going to fucking lose out on this.

At least his walk-in is clean. He made damn sure of that.

“So, uhh, how does this work?”

“We ask and you answer,” the girl says, very matter-of-fact, a hint of British accent under the thick Japanese. It takes Yancy right back to that year the family spent in Nagasaki. It’s been very distracting during this whole preliminary process.

“Relax, Mister Becket,” the producer, a huge hunk of a Brit who’d introduced himself as Stacker Pentecost, says from behind the camera. “Just keep your eyes on me and talk as you normally would. We aren’t here to fuck you over. We all want to see you succeed.”

Somewhat reassured - the man just has a reassuring air about him - Yancy nods.

“Alright, now, Mister Becket, please tell me your name and your position here at this establishment, as well as a bit about yourself.”

Yancy clears his throat, shifting a little. “My name is Yancy Becket, and I’m co-owner of the Gipsy Cafe here in...”

“Since you are the chef here, would you please state that for us?”

“I’m just a cook,” he says honestly. 

“We need you to say chef owner. It’s more descriptive.”

Gritting his teeth, he starts over. “My name is Yancy Becket, I’m twenty-three years old, and I own and operate the Gipsy Cafe in Anchorage, Alaska with my father. I also work here as the head chef.” God, that burns. With the shit product Dad makes him buy, it really is a miracle anything tastes even somewhat passable.

“Excellent.” Pentecost’s finger traces down his notebook. “Now, twenty-three is quite young to be head chef at your own restaurant, isn’t it?”

“I’ve been cooking since I was four. This is the only thing I’ve ever seen myself doing. I was so excited to have the opportunity to work here.”

“And you taught you to cook?”

“My Mama. This place was my mother’s dream, actually. We opened about five years ago, after Dad wanted us to come home to where he grew up,” he says. “She wanted to get away from fine dining and do something a little closer to her roots. Rustic, you know? She was back of the house, Dad was front, and everything just...” Yancy stops himself. He can’t let himself tear up on camera. “Everything was kind of perfect.”

“And was it successful at first?”

“We’re right around the corner from the university, so yeah, we were always busy. Mama loved it, knew all the student regulars by name...” Yancy trails off, staring down at his hands. “Everybody loved her.”

“And what happened to her?”

“She died.”

“And that’s when things started going downhill?”

“Sort of.”

+++++

Herc can already hear the voice-over he’ll be doing for this particular scene. _The daughter of the owner reached out to me directly, asking if she could meet with Chuck ’n me before heading over to the cafe. She sounded pretty upset on the phone. At this point, I have to believe there’s more going on then just the restaurant._

He hates doing voice-overs. Talking’s never been his strong suit. It always sounds better in his head, but never comes out right on paper. Plus, Stacks insists the show follow some kind of narrative format, no matter how annoying that is. Anyway, Mako helps him write most of his lines. She’ll help him make it work. 

“What’s this girl’s name?” Chuck asks. He doesn’t much care about the human side of the show - and Herc supposes it’s his fault that his boy’s so awkward with other people. He’s here because he’s a brilliant chef and brilliant on camera, and doesn’t take any shit off anybody. Makes the whole show work, really. But he is terrible one-on-one.

“Jazmin,” Herc supplies, and hands Chuck the dossier they got on the Becket family. Herc prefers going into these things cold, so the information is minimal. “She’s the youngest member of the family. The middle boy, Raleigh, is a student at the University of Anchorage, and the eldest, Yancy, is head chef at this place.”

Chuck snorts. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Don’t be too much of a dick. Lost their mum not so long ago.”

But his boy’s eyes just flatten. “Not an excuse for failure.”

Herc sighs, and is about to say something, but out the window, he sees somebody waving at him.

Game on.

She’s a cute girl, this Jazmin. Blonde and willowy, wrapped up in bright blue leggings that match her eyes and a charcoal scarf that looks hand-knitted, she puts Herc in mind of the girls from his Paris days. Beautiful and young, but hardly innocent. She’s still gangly though, coltish in a way, and since they’re picking her up in front of a high school, he guesses she can’t be much older than sixteen.

She’s at the door of the van before the driver can stop, and Chuck makes a little noise in the back of his throat.

“She’s makin’ eyes at you, Dad.”

“You do not need to protect my honor from some school-age sheila,” Herc warns him, and nods to his head cameraman. “Tendo, you good?”

“We’ll edit out that touching little exchange,” the American grins back.

Herc rolls his eyes, and opens the door.

When he signed on to do this damn show, he only agreed to it on two conditions; a minimal crew of his choosing, and Stacker Pentecost as his executive producer. Tendo follows him out of the van, camera at the ready, but that’s it. He’s got the clip-on mic in hand himself.

“Jazmin Becket, I presume?” he asks the young girl, who blushes a little and holds on her hands. _Seppos_ , he thinks, and shakes back. “Herc Hansen. Nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure,” she replies, a bit breathless, and Herc can feel Chuck’s eyes drilling a hole in his back. Boy’s a jealous little shit. She steps back, hands jammed in her back pockets. “Thanks for meeting with me today.”

“Of course,” he replies, and holds up the mic. “So I need to get you kitted up, and then we can talk, eh?”

“Oh, right.”

“You mind if I...”

“No,” and she smiles. “Go ahead.”

It’s a bit awkward, pinning it on, but Jazmin’s a serious girl; other than the blushing, she doesn’t make it worse. Herc’s always wondered what kind of appeal he holds for younger women - eight years in choppers and the last twelve in a high-stress job hasn’t exactly left him looking like a magazine model, after all - but Mako seems to delight in getting sound bites of waitresses and female owners talking about how sexy he is. Jazmin doesn’t say anything like that, and when Tendo directs them over to a nearby picnic table for an “impromptu” discussion, she bursts into tears.

“I’m so sorry, Chef Hansen,” she sniffles, reaching for the tissue Tendo passes him, “I’m sorry, I had it all in my head about how serious I’d be...”

“No worries,” he tells her softly. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

She pulls a neatly folded piece of paper out of her messenger bag, passing it over as she wipes at her eyes. It’s a news article, printed out from what looks to be a local new website. “Mama was Roma. She had to leave France so she could study and work in good kitchens, so it, was, you know, real important to her that we be proud of our heritage.”

“Okay,” Herc says, scanning the article, trying to figure out where this is going. He’s worked in Europe, knows how difficult they can be about such things. “And?”

“So when she and my dad opened their own place, I suggested that we could call it the Gipsy Cafe. Different spelling and everything, just in case somebody wanted to be a jerk. But a couple weeks before she died...”

“And sorry, what did she die of?”

“Cancer,” Jaz says quietly, not looking him in the face. “But some jackass at the university put this article out, calling us racist for using the word _gypsy_ and giving us this half-baked lecture about the discrimination the Roma face every day...”

“Which is a bit hypocritical, eh? Considering your mama was...”

“Exactly. But she was in hospice care and none of us were really thinking about it, but then...” and Jaz drops her head. “Our customers were all university people, cause we’re so close to it, and we started getting hate mail and death threats in our email...”

Herc frowns. “Just because of the word gypsy?”

“Yeah! It was awful. We lost most of our customers. I tried to get Yancy and Dad to say something, but then Dad started drinking and Yancy...” Jaz shakes her head. “Yancy’s a really good cook, Chef Hansen, and he’s trying so hard, but he can’t do this on his own.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but why not just change the name of the place?” Herc asks, taking a closer look at the article. The language is pretty inflammatory, comparing the term _gypsy_ to _nigger_ and calling Dominique Becket _a perfect example of how upper class whites fetishize PoC while simultaneously whitewashing the vibrancy of their cultures_. The whole thing’s a terrible mess of buzzwords, actually. Definitely written by a student journalist. 

Mako, Herc thinks wryly, will not approve.

“It’s Mama’s place,” Jaz says simply. 

They talk for a little while longer, a conversation that will no doubt be condensed down to another damned voice-over and a ninety-second segment. All Herc really gets out of it, beyond what was already in Jaz’s email, is that she’s a horrendously lonely girl, still struggling to get over the death of her mum. And she idolizes her older brother with the ferocity that only a little sister can muster.

Still, the way she talks about Yancy gets Herc very curious. Boy sounds like a bit of a prodigy, and even though it’s probably just little sister worship, Herc can’t help but wonder.

They part with a hug and Herc promising to help, and he climbs back in the van to see Chuck frowning, poking at his smart phone.

“You’re not actually supposed to look them up,” Herc says with a sigh. Boy was probably listening in on the mic feed.

“Yeah, well, this Dominique Becket was quite the chef,” Chuck says, and tosses the phone over as the van starts moving again. “I mean, look at this resume. Her last position, before coming up to this hellhole of a state, was Chef de Cuisine at...”

“L’Atelier de Joel Robuchon, Hong Kong.” Herc whistles, and nods. “Anything about her being Roma?”

“Not a damn thing,” Chuck says, and cocks his head. “Would that really be an issue for her, professionally?”

“Europe’s got a bit of a problem with the Roma,” Herc concedes. “But the Roma tend to be clannish themselves and have extremely traditional views of woman, from what I understand. I’d reckon her family was just as opposed to the idea of her going to culinary school as culinary school was.”

“Eh, really?”

“Possibly.” Herc has no idea how to handle this. He doesn’t know how Americans view it. Dominique probably spent her entire professional life hiding her ethnicity, and Herc’s not sure it’s his place, or the show’s, to reveal that. Not for the first time, he’s grateful he’s got Stacker as his producer. “Not our place to bring it up again, okay? Family’s choice how they want to handle it.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.”

Herc goes back through Becket’s resume, however, as they drive through the gray streets of Anchorage towards this Gipsy Cafe. Head chef at a three Michelin starred restaurant is no mean feat; she had a glowing twenty-six year career before falling ill. 

If her son is a quarter of the chef she was... and her widower husband’s an alcoholic... well.

This is probably going to be a two-parter.


	2. Chapter 2

Yancy’s not a huge fan of the show, but Jaz fucking loves it. 

So he generally knows how this goes.

The Hansens show up and have lunch. From there, a lot of different things can happen, but they always start by having a meal. Usually, the owner greets them, but Dad’s already vanished for the afternoon; Yancy can’t be sure when he’ll show up again. The restaurant’s not their only business, of course. Dad’s in oil, and for him, the restaurant’s always been more of an indulgence than a serious business venture. He bought the building, renovated the upstairs into a pretty cool loft for the family, and that was about it.

Until Mama died, and he pretty much took over everything.

But for some reason, he’s elected not to be here.

So Yancy’s the one waiting inside with the cameras as Herc and Chuck have a conversation outside on the sidewalk, and he’s the one who has to handle the introductions.

“I take it you’re not Richard,” is the first thing Herc Hansen says to him as they shake hands, and Yancy’s knee go weak. Dammit, that accent is so much sexier in person. And that grip, that hand...

“No, no, that’s my dad. I’m Yancy,” he says as warmly as he can, turning on his best non-sexual charm. Chuck Hansen - living proof that Herc is definitely not gay - is standing right there, watching him with disapproving eyes. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you both.”

“This is quite the place you have here.”

Shit. Yancy can’t tell if that’s approval or sarcasm. “Yeah, it was my mother’s dream. She wanted it to feel very down home, casual.”

“I was expecting something a little more French. But this... the decor feels very Silk Road. Something out of India or Singapore, perhaps.”

Yancy looks around. That was sort of the feel Mama was going for, with the tin lanterns and muted gold/red color palette that's echoed from the tablecloths to the artwork. They'd had the money to do this right, so at least it's not like some of the places he sees on the show, with the cheap banquet chairs and rotting tables. And while he can't necessarily clean every night, he closes on Mondays for a reason. He hasn't worked less than fourteen hours a day since the place opened. He's proud of it; he can still see Mama out here, talking to customers, and he hadn't lied about that. Everyone really did love her.

But while he's sure Herc and Chuck put as much love and care into their restaurants, that they would understand, he's not sure how to put that into words.“Mama worked all over the world, so she thought eclectic...”

“I’m hearing a lot about your mum,” Chuck interrupts, arms folded. “What about you, mate? Where’re you in all this? Cause it doesn’t look like a place a bloke owns.”

Yancy can’t help the glare he gives the kid. “This was my mama’s place.”

“It better be your food, unless you’ve got a ghost behind the stove back there,” Chuck retorts. 

It’s not a great way to start.

So Yancy leaves them to his best - only, really - waitress, Sasha, and goes back to the kitchen.

Everything comes back barely finished.

“I was afraid of this,” he admits to the main camera guy, Tendo, and Mako, both of whom are clearly watching everything he does. “Stuff coming back.”

“Do you not have faith in your cooking abilities?” Mako asks primly.

“I,” he begins, and then shakes his head. “Normally, I would. But this is Chef Hansen we’re talking about. I don’t think we’ll be up to his standards.”

“You having me on, Mister Becket?” She cocks her head. “Many people that we help have an over-inflated sense of their own abilities, yet you tell me you know you’re inadequate.”

He tries not to show how much it hurts, that word. _Inadequate_. But his prep cook, Aleksis, grunts at him, and Yancy goes back to the cake he’s plating. They’d ordered dessert. Of course. On a morning when he hadn’t had a chance to do any baking, so this is yesterday’s gingerbread. Chuck’s going to rip him a new one for serving him day-old cake, and Herc’s going to jump his shit for not having some kind of system in place to make sure the baking all gets done on time.

This menu was a lot easier to execute when Mama was in charge of it.

“Mister Becket?”

“Yeah, sorry, I’ve just...” He pauses. “I’ve worked in Michelin-starred restaurants. I know what guys like that expect.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “Everything should be fresh, local if possible, so hopefully that at least ticks the boxes with the salmon cakes from the last round of...”

But he doesn’t get a chance to finish.

Because Chuck’s barging in, that plate of - goddamn - salmon cakes in hand, and before Yancy can ask what the problem was, the kid’s slamming it down on the pass.

“Show me.”

“Show me?” Yancy parrots back, completely confused. He’s never had a complaint about those. Hell, he knows people who specifically cite those as the reason they keep coming back. He sells out on the weekends, every weekend. Of everything he’s got on the menu, he thought they’d at least like that. Even felt good enough about it to tell Mako so. Shit, this is what he was afraid, looking like a total fucking idiot...

“Show me where the goddamned tinned fish is! You know, the shit you had the gall to serve me!”

It’s going to be a long afternoon.

+++++

“I don’t see a problem with the canned salmon,” Yancy’s saying, voice tinny in the laptop speakers. “Salmon’s a seasonal thing here in Alaska. We catch it fresh in the fall and have it canned at the plant downriver. Goes from the water to my shelf in a couple of hours. It’s economical, versatile, and it’s fucking delicious. It’s not like I’m using those shit Chicken of the Sea packages. Doesn’t make any sense to buy farm-raised imported salmon just to cook it down and shred it up, does it?”

“You know that the canning process changes the texture...”

“...by cooking in the can, yeah, I know, I’m not an idiot. But with all respect, ma’am, this is Anchorage, not downtown L.A. Chef Hansen might have the luxury of sourcing north Atlantic salmon from the Faroe Islands and flying it into the Uluru in London fresh every day, but I can only work with what I have.”

“And some of the other frozen food in the freezers? You surely have local farms...”

“Yeah, I’m buddies with a couple folks north of here. Gets me pretty good deals on berries and stuff like that, so I can do my own canning...”

“You make your own jam?”

“For scones and stuff. You, umm, you wanna try some?”

“We should probably have Chef Hansen do that on camera. Perhaps tomorrow?”

“You mean after you let Chuck get more wound up, after you put us through an overcrowded dinner service tonight, right?”

“That was in the production agreement you signed...”

“Yeah, I get it.”

Mako’s notepad shuffles. “Going back to what you said before, that you can only work with what you have. Do you not make purchasing decisions for the kitchen?”

“What, in terms of product?”

“Yes.”

“My dad controls the books. If it involves money, he controls it.”

“So he has you on a strict budget.”

“I deal with my suppliers as best I can, but most of them are pretty pissed off at me right now. We owe everybody money.”

“How far in debt are you? Do you know?”

“I...”

“I ask because Herc will ask.”

“I honestly have no idea. You’re going to have to ask my dad.”

Herc pauses the video, tapping a pen on his notebook. When they can get Yancy talking, he talks plenty of sense, which is a good thing. Boy’s got a good head on his shoulders. Cares about the practicalities.

One of the more annoying consequences of the explosion of cooking shows over the past fifteen years or so is that too many chefs believe that putting together a good plate of food is all they need to do to succeed. Consider themselves artists and let everything else suffer. But Herc knows, a restaurant is like any other business; it’s a business first. He’s a decent cook, but it was his management saavy that put his and Scott’s first restaurant on the Australian culinary map. 

Most places they visit, they have to teach the clueless owners the basics. With this Yancy, Herc’s going to have to find out why those basics aren’t being applied. As far as the food goes... he’s going to need Chuck input on that, but Herc suspects the problem with lunch today was more the menu than raw ability.

Or maybe he just wants to believe that.

Yancy’s just the right kind of adorable. Nothing innocent or sweet about him on the surface; he’s all hard edges, but not in the way Chuck is. Herc’s not real sure what’s going on in there, but he’s thoroughly looking forward to figuring it out this week.

All in the name of good TV. Of course.

“Oi, Dad, we still doing that stress test tonight?”

Herc looks up, over at where Chuck is standing in the interior doorway of his hotel room. They got one of those set-ups where their two adjoining suites open up into each other. Not like they’re going to need the separate beds, but Chuck likes to have his own space even when they’re on the road, and there are appearances to maintain, after all. Like the tabloids aren’t already far enough up their arses as it is.

“I’m rethinking it,” he admits, and waves Chuck over. “Tendo brought me the footage from this afternoon, you know, after you stormed out.”

Sitting down next to him, Chuck lays his chin on Herc’s shoulder. “Sure, and?”

He sighs. “I wanna see how Yancy handles a service.”

“He’s not capable of...”

Herc moves the bar on the video player back, to that one comment Yancy made before Chuck came in and nuked him. 

_I’ve worked in Michelin-starred restaurants._

Chuck just grunts and leans in to kiss Herc on the jaw. “We’ve got a few minutes before Mako expects us back, don’t we?”

Running his fingers through his boy’s hair, Herc double checks the time on his computer. “Ten minutes ain’t enough time for me to fuck you proper.”

“’s good enough for a blowjob,” Chuck grins, and slithers off the bed, onto his knees.

+++++

Dad finally shows up at the worst possible time.

In the middle of dinner service.

Yancy already knows this is going to be a slaughter. It’s inevitable. They’re never this busy at dinner, and Sasha’s the only waitress who’s stuck it out with him (and mostly because she’s dating Aleksis), and he can’t physically get all the work done. 

At least Raleigh’s out in the front of house tonight, and Jasmine, who told him he could shove it if he thought she was sitting this one out, is helping expedite. Raleigh’s a charmer and Jaz isn’t afraid to get loud when she needs to, so things started out okay. All Yancy had to do was keep his head down and cook, he figured, even if Chuck kept asking him questions - _is the menu too complicated... you open a packet in front of me and I’ll shove it up your ass sideways... does this fucking Russian speak English mate or what? - before disappearing into the walk-in with one of the cameras_.

It wasn’t bad.

Even if Herc is lounging at the front of the kitchen, piercing blue eyes taking in every little detail of everything that’s going on, and when his gaze hits Yancy?

Jesus, that man could melt panties at fifty yards.

Not that Yancy wears panties. But in any other situation, outside his mama’s kitchen, if a gorgeous older man was looking at him like that, that combination of interest and indifferent command, like everything in sight? Oh yes. Yes please.

“No, Dad, I can handle the pass! You don’t have to...”

“Jazzie girl, you have homework to do.”

Back to the cameras, Yancy pinches his nose in frustration, and looks over at Aleksis. “ _Can you handle the cooking for a few minutes?_ ” he asks in Russian. “ _The bastard’s been in the booze again._ ”

Aleksis gives a half nod, tilting his head. “ _He is always in the booze these days._ ”

“Yeah, no shit,” Yancy grumbles, falling back to English, and wipes his hands on his apron as he heads over to deal with his father. Jazmine is clearly right on the edge of throwing a mass shit fit, her voice starting to pitch up in that way only a pissed-off teenage girl can manage, but her eyes track to him as he comes around, off the line. “Hey, Dad, she’s doin’ fine. We’ve got this.”

“Don’t you tell me what to do in my own...”

“This isn’t about you.” Yancy can smell the alcohol on his dad’s breath. “If Jaz wants to be here, she can be here.”

“This is still my restaurant,” Dad growls, and looks at Jaz. His eyes are a little unfocused, his movements slurred and his words jerky. It probably wouldn’t be that noticeable to the untrained observer, but Yancy’s had plenty of time since the funeral to watch Dad go downhill. “Honey, let me do this, eh? You’ve got homework.”

“No!” Jaz snaps, teeth out. “You don’t have any right to kick me out of Mama’s...”

“I’m your father, young lady,” he snarls, and all but pushes her away. “Go do your homework, okay?”

She looks to Yancy, but Yancy glances over at Herc Hansen.

“Why don’t you go help Raleigh out in front?” he suggests, and glares at his father as the sodden man starts rearranging tickets.

“But Yancy,” she whines.

“ _I’ve got the kitchen, my little hen. No need to make a scene, we know the drinking is a disease, he can’t help it. Go help your brother,_ ” Yancy tells her in French - a language Dad never bothered to learn, and hated Mama teaching them - and points out the door. “Don’t give him any lip!” he follows up in English.

“ _Half of everything will come back now,_ ” Aleksis says, as Yancy comes back. “ _He will send it to the wrong table._ ”

“Always does,” Yancy replies, and looks over at the door. Jaz is gone, but so is Herc, and he’s got no idea what that means.

+++++

“Well, just look at it this way,” Raleigh oh-so-unhelpfully points out, mouth full of waffle, “they’re people who wouldn’t have come in otherwise.”

"They won't come back."

"Of course they will. College kids love free food."

“Having to comp, like, most of the tables because Dad fucked up the tickets isn’t really the outcome I wanted.” Yancy rubs his hands through his hair, not bothering to take his elbows off the counter, watching the light on his waffle maker. He can feel yesterday’s pomade, his messy blonde locks squeezing up in spikes between his fingers. Cooking something complicated normally makes him feel better, but right now, his guts just hurt. 

“What was it Herc said to you? _I have never seen a kitchen sink quite so badly in my entire life. It’s a slaughter out there. Fuck me, I feel like I’m back in Afghanistan._ ”

“That is a terrible Australian accent.”

Raleigh dunks his last bite of waffle, chewing thoughtfully, swallowing. And then saying. “How ‘bout I throw another shrimp on the barbie?”

“He can kill you. He used to fly attack helicopters.”

“Sexy,” Raleigh teases, and laughs. “At least he knows you’re not the problem.”

Yancy doesn’t bother taking the bait. He knows they interviewed Raleigh both before and after service, his brother more eager to go through this whole reality show process than he is. He can only imagine what the kid said. “I’ve been thinking about something they asked me yesterday, about the finances.”

“What’s that?” Raleigh asks, but the doorbell rings.

They look at each other, and then Jaz is running through the open living/dining area of the loft, on her way down to the stairs. She’s a little more dressed up than she normally is. Hell, she’s got a dress on. With her, it’s almost always jeans and those chunky sweaters she and Raleigh like to knit. While watching old 1950s romance movies together on the sofa. Giggling. 

Yeah. But somehow, Yancy’s the gay one.

“No boyfriends this early!” Yancy yells after her, Raleigh chuckling as he devours the rest of his waffle and gets up for another.

“It’s not a boyfriend!” she yells back up, trotting smugly up the stairs, and the next thing Yancy knows, the Hansens and the camera guy, Tendo, are standing in his house.

Yancy’s brain locks up.

“Mind if we have a word?” Herc asks mildly.

“Umm,” Yancy tries to say, and glances over at Jaz, who’s completely unapologetic, playing with her hair. “You guys eaten yet?”

“Why, you offering to order us some take-away?” Chuck replies without missing a beat.

Yancy just sighs, and goes over to wash his hands. 

He ends up having to whip up another batch of waffles. And a fresh pot of coffee. And digs the jug of maple syrup out of the back of the fridge, because if Chuck’s going to tell him his home-canned blueberry jam is shit, he’d like to have a second topping option, just in case. 

But if he was worried about Herc and Chuck trying to dig into the restaurant, it’s unfounded. Herc mostly just wants to know about their travels, where they’ve been and what kind of food they like. Jazmine can’t say enough fond things about Thailand, and Raleigh gets downright weepy about Japan, but for Yancy, France, France is the center of his culinary universe. 

Yancy doesn’t say anything much about it, though. Lets Raleigh and Jazmine talk, and just keeps churning out waffles, eating his own in big bites in between turns of the iron. 

It would be a pleasant morning, not entirely dissimilar from others they had here, he and Mama cooking breakfast for whoever was visiting that week, chatting about everything and nothing over some good food, if it wasn’t for the cameras.

“That’s a damn good waffle, Yancy,” Herc tells him at length. “Not as sweet as I normally expect to get out of a seppo. There’s restraint here and it works.”

“I, uhh, I adjusted the recipe to cut back on the sugar. The kids like syrup and it’s a bit...”

“The kids? Do you have children?”

Jazmine rolls her eyes. “No, Chef, he’s talking about us. Yancy definitely can’t have any kids.” And she eyes Yancy, grinning a little. “Unless you lied last year about the whole...”

“And it’s not too late for me to call the school back and tell them you’re playing hooky,” Yancy interrupts pointedly. Getting outed by his little sister on national TV. Wouldn’t that be fun?

“You wouldn’t.”

“Clean up the kitchen after the cameras are gone and I’ll consider it.”

“What Dad is saying, mate,” Chuck continues, obviously oblivious to Jasmine’s death glare, “is that this waffle demonstrates you’re not complete shite as a cook, so the hell are you doing down there?”

Yancy bristles, but Raleigh beams. “You should taste it with his fried chicken.”

“Chicken and waffles?” Chuck asks, slightly disgusted. “That an American thing?”

“It’s a rather popular dish, isn’t it?” Herc continues, and sips his coffee. “Think that would be a good choice for a student cafe.”

“Mama didn’t want it on the menu,” Yancy says with a shrug. “Thought it was crass.”

“Right, and how long’s your mum been dead?” Chuck asks. 

Everything goes kind of quiet. Somehow, even though Chuck was the only one who was talking. 

“The staff is going to be in at ten,” Yancy says quietly, getting up. “You still want to have that meeting with everyone?”

Herc gives his son an exasperated look. “It is on the production schedule for the day, yes.”

“I should probably go get prep started...”

“Hang prep. We’ll give you an assist,” Herc says and kicks Yancy’s chair out towards him. “Si’ddown and finish your brekkie. Can’t have you passing out during service.”

“I should go wake up Dad,” Raleigh says. 

“If you can sober him up before the meeting,” Herc says mildly, “I’d recommend it.”

Chuck, despite all his whining, finishes his third waffle without any further needling. 

It’s almost a compliment.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite Herc’s promises about helping him with prep, that’s not what ends up happening.

What does happen is that Rals gets Dad up. Dad eats breakfast in silence, Jaz sitting on the edge of the counter with her mouth all pinched up, Herc asking them more questions that are probably just meant for the cameras, stuff about Mama. And then Chuck gets in front of Yancy as they’re headed down the stairs, stopping him from following the rest of the family out of the loft and down into the restaurant.

“What are you...”

“We’re going to a farmer’s market,” Chuck announces, lofty. “Get you out of this shithole and back around some real food again, yeah?”

Yancy looks at him, and then looks at the camera guy. Kid must not have talked to his producer, or his producer didn’t do her research. Makes him wonder how much of this is actually scripted. These shows are basically scripted, aren’t they? Planned out? “We can do that, but, umm, they’re probably not open today.”

“What do you mean?” 

“There’s only, like, two or three in town and they’re not year round and they’re not always open, even when we’re actually in the growing season...”

And Chuck stops him, face sour, like he swallowed something bitter. “Growing season?”

“Chef Hansen, this is Alaska,” Yancy explains patiently. “We’re still in what, early May? The damn snow’s barely melted. Trees take something like sixty years to get yay high,” and he holds his hand about hip height. Sure, he’s exaggerating, but Raleigh only ever listens to him when he exaggerates, and he’s about the same age as Chuck. “We don’t have tons of options.”

“You got a Whole Foods?”

“Yeah, there’s one downtown.”

“We’re goin’ to Whole Foods,” Chuck says, in the exact same tone as before, and Yancy realizes he’s doing it so they can edit the whole last exchange out.

But whatever. They’re helping his restaurant out. He can play along. “That’s not normally where I buy product.”

“No worries, I’d be terrified if it was. But I wanna see if you can actually cook anything and we need something better than the cut-rate crap you’ve got in the walk-ins to make that kind of judgment.”

“Cool,” Yancy says as they hit the street, the rental van for the production team up ahead on the curb. Something hits him, and he adds, trying to keep it casual, “as long as you’re buying.”

“Well, I know your daddy’s got you on an allowance, so sure, I’ll spring for it this time,” Chuck says, and then gives him a look. “Hey Tendo, cut the camera, yeah?”

“Sure thing, man.”

And the second the camera goes down, Chuck stops him. Like, actually stops him. Hand on chest, the whole deal. “Mate, you understand how this works, right? We’re takin’ care of this shit right now. The studio’s gonna reimburse you for anything we might spend or throw away or anything like that. Anything.” His eyes flick over Yancy. “Your dad talked a bit to my old man about how far in the shit the cafe is. It’d be irresponsible to make it worse.”

“What did my dad say?”

“I think we should turn the cameras back on if we’re gonna talk about it.”

Yancy thinks about that. “No, can we leave them off for a little while?”

Chuck nods back towards the van and starts walking again. “Dad really is gonna help with prep. Jaz told us Raleigh works in the kitchen sometimes, so we thought it’d be nice to do a piece with him and them.”

“Raleigh doesn’t know how to do any of the baking...”

“Mate, do you ever unplug?”

And that’s rich, coming from Chuck fucking Hansen. “Do you?”

“See, there’s some of that attitude I’d expect out of a chef. Fuck only knows how you keep that mountain of a Russian prep cook in line, being such a sad cunt and all.” 

“I don’t think you can say cunt on American TV.”

“I know. Bunch of pussies, the FCC. So where’s the Whole Foods at?”

“You should probably check your phone. I can’t afford to buy anything there. Place is pretentious as hell.”

“I know,” and Chuck really is adorable when he’s smiling and not screaming, Yancy thinks. “I avoid it like the plague. We’ll blur out the name, yeah? No need to throw them any more publicity.”

+++++

_After our first night here, it became apparent to me the problems in this place weren’t entirely on the shoulders of the chef. He’s clearly overloaded, trying to ensure his younger siblings can continue in their schooling while keeping his mother’s dream afloat. I wasn’t much older than him when I moved my family to Paris with nothing but a few hundred dollars in our bank account, so I can sympathize. But I was fortunate enough to work for people who pushed me. From what I can tell, Yancy’s out here on his own. I want to see what he can do if he’s pushed._

Herc tries not to indulge the inner monologue. Stay objective. Keep himself on target. It’s harder to do once he forces his own narrative on the situation.

But sometimes, it’s harder than others. 

He’s starting to like these Becket kids.

And he doesn’t need a week to figure out what the problem is here.

Richard’s the problem. Richard is definitely the problem. The bloke knows his way around the kitchen; his wife might have been the chef, but Richard clearly understands how to prep. At least, he understands how to work the list Raleigh shoved in his hands. And he’s playing nice with the cameras. Actually doing what Herc’s telling him to do.

It’ll make for a nice montage. But that’s about all they’re going to get.

Because Richard is absolutely refusing to talk. 

Normally, Herc would be okay with that. He can do pleasantries and bullshit and all that, but he doesn’t enjoy it. Silence. He finds silence the best form of interaction. If he can work silently next to someone and they just get it, he’s happy.

But silence doesn’t play very well on TV, and one of the things that Herc really, really needs is an honest answer about the finances. It’s impossible to know if he can even do this if they’re too far in the shit with their finances. Richard signed the disclosure agreements with the network, so if he wants to continue to be a cunt about this, Herc’s got some options. Not many - it’s not like they can sue the bloke, although this is America, so who knows? - but some. 

Raleigh - who was so bubbly over breakfast - is quiet too, answering basic questions but refusing to get further into any kind of detail about anything. Refusing to engage. Keeping his head down and working.

He sent Jaz out of the kitchen too. Just like his brother did last night.

That need to keep everything on an even keel, even, especially, when your parents are failing you horribly. Oh yeah. Herc knows that pain all too well. 

Herc could kill Stacker for this; his old friend knows damn well that Donovan was a miserable drunk. No way Mako would have missed Richard’s alcoholism during the screening process. And if this is some kind of play by the network for a heartfelt, emotional episode to level out that epic fight Chuck had with the belligerently inept chef at Purple and Gold in New Orleans last week, and the sheer idiocy of that couple in Milwaukee with the horrific kitchen, and all the other shit. Mako’s gotten very, very sneaky.

Well. The boys need the help. This place is a mess. That dining room is a design disaster, exactly the kind of jumble of cliches that Herc would expect out of an Indian restaurant back home in Darwin. Relations with the local community have clearly gone to shit. And Yancy, Yancy.

There’s something interesting Herc wasn’t expecting to find.

He saw the younger man glancing at him this morning, those blue eyes flicking over when he thought he wasn’t being watched. But Herc’s been very, very careful about his public image. Nobody knows he’s bisexual, just like nobody knows about him and Chuck. So if Yancy leans that way...

It’s not worth thinking about.

Because if he starts thinking about it, Herc’s not sure if he’ll be able to get through the week. Kitchens are tight quarters under the best of circumstances, and Yancy is a truly gorgeous boy. 

Last thing Herc needs to do is get caught feeling up a much younger man on camera. Or have Chuck turn into his normal jealous little self. It’s not like they can’t share...

And the sudden image of Chuck shoving Yancy back into the tile wall of that narrow little kitchen sort of locks up Herc’s brain.

“Wasn’t my idea to call you lot.”

Startling out of that very nice fantasy, Herc realizes Richard actually just said something. 

But Raleigh’s gone. Their second camera man, Bruce, is out of the room. Richard probably thinks they’re alone, and Herc wonders if Yancy told his dad about the static cameras mounted in every room of the cafe.

Specifically for situations like this, actually.

“What do you mean?” he asks, trying to get back up on top of things. 

“Jazmine did it behind my back. Behinds her brother’s too.” He dumps a handful of diced mushroom into one of the stainless steel bowls out on the prep table, and reaches for more of the whole ones. “It’s like I’ve been telling Yancy, if it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. I have no problem closing the doors here if need be.”

And that stops Herc. He sets his knife down. (He tries to avoid sharp implements when he feels a fight coming on. Those old air assault instincts die hard.) “You’re fine with closing?”

“I’ve worked in two and three star establishments, Chef Hansen, in a wide variety of jobs, and let me tell you, after you spend a few months as sommelier in Hong Kong or floor manager in Tokyo, this shit doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?”

Richard does some little careless gesture with his hands, and somehow, it puts Herc uncomfortably in mind of Donovan, fucking prick that he was. “This place is a hobby. Always has been.”

“Doesn’t seem to be a hobby for your son.”

“He worries too much,” Richard replies, and yawns. 

“Excuse me, but...”

“No, don’t pull that shit with me, mate,” Richard snaps, the last word smearing into a bad imitation of an Australian accent. “I know your rep, and not from that stupid show but from back when you and your brother were still running amok in London, and let me tell you, I’m not impressed.”

This is something Herc hadn’t considered. The fact that the Becket family, up until a few years ago, was working in the same rarified echelon of the industry. But fuck him. Fuck that. “My time in London? Even before I opened Uluru, with my son as an equal fucking partner, my brother and I were all but running Hawksmoor for an absentee owner, working...”

“I know Schoenfeld, so don’t sit here and tell me...”

“Don’t you dare interrupt me!” Herc growls. “Scott and I worked sixteen, eighteen hour days for two years straight, no holidays, nothing. The only time I saw my son was after school, when he came by to work with us in the kitchen...”

“Oh, don’t fucking give me that. Everybody knows...”

“...and now, a decade later, I’ve got twenty-five Michelin stars to my name, and all you’ve got is a failing cafe in the fucking frozen north, so _you_ don’t get to stand there and tell _me_ a goddamn thing about what you know about restaurants! You fucking donkey!”

Fortunately, Richard has the good sense to storm out. 

Unfortunately, though, he shoves Raleigh out of the way in order to do so. Herc’s got no idea how long the boy’s been standing there, but the crushed look on his face... yeah, he can commiserate. He knows how it feels to be nothing but let down.

“Come on,” Herc says, and waves him back in. “Mako-san’s probably going to have a little chat with him. We need to get cracking on this prep list. It’s rather long.”

Raleigh glances back over his shoulder, and then back to Herc. “He misses her a lot, you know.”

“I know, son,” Herc says, as kindly as he can, but it’s a lie. Sort of. Because he suspects whatever’s going on with Richard Becket, it’s got nothing to do with his dead wife. Not anymore, anyway. “But come on, I’m curious. Did your work in London? We might know some of the same people.”

The kid brightens up and starts talking and Bruce is still gone with the cameras, so Herc finally has some room to think.

+++++

As much as it make Yancy hate himself, Whole Foods is on the verge of a religious experience. Chuck’s rambling on about the markets in France and London, probably more for the camera’s benefit than Yancy’s; Yancy remembers those markets himself. Just being around this much produce makes him think of those shaded stalls under the Paris sun, tables overflowing with the best of the surrounding countryside, Mama beside him, pointing out which vegetables were just coming into season, charming bites of cheese or small cups of wine off the vendors, encouraging him to tell her what he tasted and helping him describe what he didn’t have words for.

But then, they didn’t live in Paris very long. Maybe a year. Mama had wanted to go home, and Yancy had enjoyed it. It was his first time living overseas, and to an eight year old, everything had seemed magical. It’s probably all exaggerated in his mind, and Yancy knows that, but. Still. 

He really doesn’t want to be thinking about Mama right now.

“Now, when we get back to the kitchen, I’m gonna give us thirty minutes to each make a dish,” Chuck’s saying. “Think about price and think about what would sell to your customer base.”

Yancy snorts. “Not that I’ve got much of a customer base.”

“Well, that’s what we’re here to fix, mate.”

And when they hit the meat counter, Yancy knows he shouldn’t, he really knows he shouldn’t, but they’ve got local duck for only a buck more a pound than chicken, and God, it’s been a long time since he’s had duck. 

“Your choice of protein.”

“Duck.”

“Bold move, Becket.”

“Bring it, Hansen,” he smirks at the kid, and asks the butcher for about a pound of the breasts. Gives him three, which ought to be just about perfect.

Chuck goes for pork tenderloin, probably just to be an asshole. 

Yancy just rolls his eyes and goes back to pick up some potatoes. And thyme. 

It’s been way too long since he’s had fresh herbs in Mama’s kitchen.

+++++

Yancy’s sure that the raw camera footage of them cooking will be turned into an elegant montage of Chuck’s culinary expertise for the episode itself; the kid is a brawler, sure, but there’s a certain grace in the way he moves around a kitchen. The way Chuck Hansen’s shoulders strain under that white chef’s jacket is borderline obscene. And maybe Yancy’s got a bit of an authority kink. Nothing hotter than a cute guy who knows what he’s doing.

There’s no time to watch Chuck right now, though. Duck’s a pain in the ass to cook properly, potatoes are almost as time consuming when it comes to prep, and Yancy, of course, had to make it harder on himself by doing a pan sauce. 

He is going to get this right, though. He’ll be damned if he’s going to serve Herc Hansen something that’s not perfect.

Thirty minutes goes by in a flash.

And he’s sweating when Sasha comes in to sweep their dishes out to the dining room.

“Now what?” he asks Chuck.

“Now we wait for a bit.”

A bit turns out to be five minutes, when Mako finally comes back to tell them Herc and Dad have had a chance to taste and discuss. 

Yancy’s not expecting his dish to be almost gone.

And he really hopes he’s not blushing, because Herc Hansen just tasted his food and liked it.

“This is you on a plate, isn’t it?” Herc asks him, point blank, pointing at the duck. 

Raleigh, sitting next to Dad, beams.

Trying to keep his face blank, Yancy nods. “Yes Chef.”

“Yeah, I can taste it. Beautifully seasoned, the skin is crispy, fat rendered properly, good flavor,” and Herc turns to Dad. “Your son can cook, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I never said he couldn’t,” Dad says with a carelessness in his voice that gets right under Yancy’s skin. He takes another bite of the dish in front of him. “Almost as good as what his mother use’ta do.”

Herc’s face goes flat. “So why aren’t you supporting him?”

“His mom was a Michelin award winner. I don’t see him doing that.” And Dad jabs his fork at Chuck’s dish. “Now that, I can taste the difference, can’t you? Unless you want to continue making this some kind of competition between your kid and mine.”

Yancy wants to curl up on the rug and die. But it’s hardly the worst thing he’s heard Dad say over the past year, and that’s Herc Hansen sitting there at the table in front of him, and he is not going to make an ass out of himself on television.

Raleigh, on the other hand, didn’t seem to get that memo.

“Dad, how can you say that?” he demands. “Yancy turned down...”

“ _Shut up, Rals,_ ” Yancy snaps at him in French, because that is yet another thing he doesn’t think needs to be aired.

His brother goes red. “ _What do you mean, shut up?! Dad is sitting here insulting you after you made something fucking delicious, like you always do when your hands aren’t tied..._ ”

“ _We just need to get through this._ ”

“ _I know you turned down your acceptance to the Auguste Escoffier because of Mama and Dad wants to sit here and throw that shit in your face..._ ”

“ _I turned it down because I was cocky and didn’t think I needed it, so don’t put that on Mama! I wanted to be here! I thought I could do this! Don’t make this about her and don’t make it about Dad!_ ” Yancy half-yells. “ _You blame everything on him..._ ”

“ _It is his fault, and you know it, and we’ve got help here,_ ” and Raleigh points at Herc angrily, “ _but you won’t take it and you’re pretending like everything’s okay when we all know it’s fucking not!_ ”

It’s fast, rapid-fire; Raleigh’s French gets more fluid, the more emotional he is. And that usually only serves to wind Yancy up more. 

So maybe they’re screaming at each other.

“ _This isn’t your problem! It’s mine, and I’m going to handle it the way I feel is best!_ ”

“ _Fuck what you think is best! What about Jaz?!_ ”

“What the fuck have I told you two about speaking like that in front of me?” Dad demands.

Raleigh stops cold. Looks at Dad, then back to Yancy. “Fuck this, I’m out of here,” he grumbles, storming off. “I’m not missing my art history lecture for this shit.”

One of the cameras follows him out.

Yancy winces as the front door slams shut.

“They’re just going to translate it for TV, son,” Dad says mildly.

And Yancy knows if he starts talking, he won’t be able to stop.

So he just shakes his head and heads back to the kitchen, straight through, out into the back alley, where he can crumble onto the old bench they leave out here for Aleksis’ smoke breaks. He runs his fingers through his hair, trying to breathe without sobbing.

The door creaks open, and while he was sort of hoping it was Herc, it’s Chuck. With Tendo.

“Can we not do the cameras right now?” he mumbles.

“I speak French, you know,” Chuck says, completely ignoring Yancy’s request. “Caught what you were saying.” He looks uncomfortable, off balance, and yeah, this should be the part where Herc’s coming out to offer some encouragement, or the camera alone, to ask for a reaction. Chuck hardly ever gets into this sort of thing. “My old man isn’t so good with it, but he knows a bit too.”

“Great,” Yancy grumbles, staring at the ground.

“Auguste Escoffier, that cooking school in Austin, right?”

“I got accepted to the Boulder campus.”

“Why’d you turn it down? Really? Because that’s a big deal.”

Yancy shrugs. “Doesn’t... I... I don’t know. Mama was sick. Threw up a lot in the mornings, tried to hide it by doing more baking early in the day, before we were up. She was getting worse, and I... I didn’t want to leave her.”

Chuck’s quiet for a moment. “Lost my mum when I was ten.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard. Sorry about that. It was a fire, right?”

“Yeah, a fire. Quick. Always felt grateful that me and Dad had the restaurant to get us through. But I didn’t let it define me. You gotta stop letting it define you.” Yancy looks up. Chuck’s standing there with his hands shoved in his pockets, looking very uncertain. The arrogance from the kitchen gone, he looks like what he is; a twenty-one year old boy. A cute twenty-one year old boy. “You should have gone to Boulder.”

“If you had another couple months with your mom, wouldn’t you take it?”

“My mum would have wanted me to make a future for myself. She was real big on that. Bet your mum would have said the same thing.” And he cocks his head. “Did you even tell her?”

Yancy licks his lip and pushes up. “I should probably get back to prep.”

“Come on, Becket. Tell me. Did your mum know you’d gotten into culinary school?”

“No,” Yancy says.

Chuck doesn’t press it any more, and Yancy’s grateful for that.

Neither does Herc, who’s waiting in the kitchen with a menu in hand and an entire array of little white ramekins, laid out all neat and proper, Aleksis at his side, managing to look both pissed off and sheepish at the same time. He probably got gang-pressed into helping with the set-up.

“After doing prep with your dad this morning, we need to talk about the complexity of this menu,” Herc says, and brandishes the two page folder. “It’s way too much for you and Aleksis here to do on your own.”

“I agree,” Yancy says, too worn down at this point to say anything else.

He’s just happy nobody’s pressing him on the admissions letter.

Raleigh had picked up the mail that afternoon, the day it came, or maybe a day or two before; they weren’t the best at checking the mail slot. Yancy had sat at the kitchen table and opened in, hands shaking, and Raleigh had tackled him down in a bear hug...

And then Mama came home from the doctor and sat them down and told them she had Stage Four leukemia.


	4. Chapter 4

“This is a bit too dramatic, even for Yank television,” Stacker says in that stoically British way of his. Herc’s known him long enough to know what he means, so he just says it.

“You mean, this Sokolov bitch is fucking crazy.”

A smile quirks at the edges of his old friend’s mouth. Another couple of whiskeys, and Stacker might be saying it too. But they’re both still only on their second - and hopefully last - of the night. There’s a lot of work to get done in the last few days they’ve got here. Drinking in the hotel bar isn’t going to accomplish any of it; the menu overhaul, the renovations Herc’s got planned, seeing if Richard will step up or, better yet, step out of the cafe forever.

At least dinner service was better tonight. Both Chuck and Yancy’s dishes had gone on as specials, Richard hadn’t started drinking until about halfway through and Raleigh deftly kept him out of the kitchen, so it mostly held together. Better comments from the customers, even with Sasha’s somewhat prickly demeanor.

And Herc feels like he’s got a better handle on what’s going on, now that they’ve had that explosion of French translated on the fly, for production purposes.

Richard’s a problem for Yancy. Obviously.

But then, so is Dominique. In her own way.

“Clearly, she thinks she has a point.”

“You want me to validate her feelings or some shit like that?”

“You?” Stacker chuckles a little, and backs the copy of the dailies up. “I just don’t think it’d be a good idea to pursue this gypsy angle any further, would it now?”

Herc doesn’t need to watch it again, and he says so. Mako had reached out to Naomi Sokolov, the girl who wrote the article that Jazmine had spoken about. She had - of course, bloody Communication majors - agreed to do an interview. It involved much preaching and posturing and soap-box standing, which Herc had put up with what he hoped would come across on camera as barely disguised annoyance. And perhaps that would have worked, had he not asked her, _”what if I told you that Yancy Becket, the chef of the cafe in question, was half Roma himself?_ ”

“I doubt that,” she said.

“Why’s that?”

“He’s blond, for starters.”

“What difference does that make?”

“Well, it means he’s white, or at least, white-passing,” she’d drawled, like Herc was some kind of fucking idiot. “The Roma aren’t white.”

“I don’t know how much you know about the ethnic composition of Europe, young lady, but I can assure you, most Americans would not be able to tell the difference...”

“The Roma are people of color, Chef Hansen. Everybody knows that.” And she’d shrugged, rolled her eyes. “And for the record, I met his mom. She’s white too. So I don’t know what you’re getting at, but a slur is a slur, and if his business closes because of it, fuck him for being such a racist asshole. I think he deserves it.”

Mako had very politely intervened at that point, wrapped the whole thing up, and bundled Herc out of there before he could do something that would probably earn him the wrath of the entire Alaskan press. 

“I don’t fuckin’ care who’s right or wrong in all this,” and Herc waves a hand at his producer’s laptop, “this fucking bullshit, but what Yancy’s doing is clearly wrong for this market.”

“I would agree that rebranding is critical here. Perhaps more so than most other places we’ve been,” Stacker nods. “But whatever you do, it needs to not be about this shit.”

Herc looks back over his own notes. Writing things down, even with his poor command of the English language, is imperative for these sorts of cases. “The boy’s got an international flair to his cooking style, probably his mother’s influence, but his true passion is French cuisine. I suspect he’s quite good at it.”

“Do you think that would work, up here in Anchorage?”

“If you kept it approachable, simple, focused on the kinds of things students might enjoy, I think it could do very well.” Herc shrugs. “Anything would be better than what he’s doing now.”

“Let me know what you need.”

“A few weeks would be nice.”

“We’ve only got three more days,” Stacker says, and pauses. “What’s this about anyway? You don’t normally get this attached.”

Truth be told, Herc’s not real sure either. Sure, he’d really like to fuck the boy through the mattress, but it’s more than that. Somehow. Not that he and Chuck have some kind of exclusive arrangement - they’d probably drive each other mad if they did, Chuck from boredom and Herc from guilt - but he usually doesn’t get this focused on somebody who’s _not_ Chuck. 

“They’re good kids, trying to make it work with a mum who’s gone and a dad who’s a drunk. Tell me you can’t understand that.”

Stacker snorts. “Get out of here and get some sleep, would ya?”

“Roger that, boss.”

Back in the day, it might have gotten Herc a balled-up naplin in the face, but Stacker’s been a lot more serious since this last promotion. Stacker just rolls his eyes and Herc smirks back, and that’s all there is to things anymore. Which is fine, as far as Herc’s concerned. Considering what’s waiting for him upstairs.

But none of that works out the way it’s supposed to.

Because on the way to the elevator, Herc gets a phone call he really can’t ignore.

+++++

Yancy’s nodding off, when he feels the hand on his shoulder.

Jumps.

“You alright there?”

“Shit,” he grumbles, shifting around in the hard plastic seat in the ER waiting room. Blinking a few times to clear his eyes, he finds Herc - _Chef Hansen_ , he reminds his brain, although no, that only serves to further sexualize the man in his thoughts - looking down at him. 

“What’s going on? It’s not your brother, is it?”

No nonsense. Straight to the point. Yancy shakes himself, trying to clear the haze of rage from his thoughts.

“No, no, it’s, umm, it’s Dad.” Herc’s just... watching him, and Yancy tries not to squirm. Apparently, that intensity is a default setting. Active even when Herc is sporting an ancient henley and a five ‘o clock shadow, instead of his usual clean-cut, starched white TV self. _Do not think about how that would be in bed, do not think about what that stubble would feel like on your..._ “He collapsed ‘bout an hour after service. Aleksis and I bundled his sodden ass in the car and brought him down.” He waves down the hall, towards the ER proper. “He’s getting his stomach pumped or something, I don’t know. They might be done.”

“And you called me...”

“Aleksis wasn’t answering, and Jaz and Raleigh have school tomorrow,” he says, and he’s shrinking, he knows he is, he can feel it. “And I... I don’t want them to know about this.”

Herc folds his arms. “I feel like I’m missing something here. Why do you want to go home if your old man’s still in there, eh?”

“The doc’s worried about his liver, wants to do some more testing. I just want to get home and get a few hours of sleep before this shit,” and he moves his hand sort of up, not sure how to indicate _your TV show_ with a hand gesture, before giving up with a groan, “starts up again.”

“More sounds to me like it never stops,” Herc observes, and sits down across from him. 

The ER is mostly depopulated at the moment, somewhere between the kids getting hurt at hockey practice and the kids getting shitfaced and hitting each other with cars hours. Yancy brought Dad in around midnight. He’s got no idea what time it is. He’s grateful, though, for the company. 

“I guess you’ve probably got somebody who translated me and Rals, huh?”

“And you and Aleksis,” Herc replies, calmly. 

“Guess you want to know why I didn’t say anything?”

“Truth be told, I’m mighty glad you’re not in denial.”

“About my dad? Yeah, not a chance.” And Yancy stops, because as safe as he feels right now - it’s been a long time since somebody just let him talk - he can’t do this. Not with Herc. “It’s Mama. He loved her.”

“Bullshit.”

Yancy swallows. Hell. “I don’t want this on TV.”

“Fine with me, mate.”

“But aren’t you here to get enough material for the show?”

“Do you see me with a camera right now?”

“No, but...”

“I’ve got more than enough for two episodes and that’s without actually fixing the issues here. This? We can say your dad took ill and couldn’t participate, but,” and Herc seems to hesitate, “we should have a talk, on camera, about this alcohol problem of his.”

“I don’t...”

“The studio would not allow us to divulge medical information, such as this event, without his direct consent. But you and I can talk about how you can handle it.”

“Do we have to do that on camera?”

“Would you rather not?”

Yancy rubs his face. It’s nice, right now, being able to pretend that Chef Hansen is here for him and not some TV show, and while he can’t hide much from Raleigh, he doesn’t like dealing with the emotions (or lately, the lack of emotions) this shit stirs up, and Yancy realizes in this moment he desperately wants to talk about it. Even if he has to do that on camera. And it’s too late at night to stick to his convictions, not with Herc right in front of him. 

So he almost has a _yes_ squeezed out, but there are footsteps stopping right in front of him, and.

“Mister Becket,” a nurse says, clipboard at the ready, “we’ve got a few things to go over with your father’s insurance. Would you mind...”

“Of course,” he says and gets up, shooting Herc an apologetic smile, following her up to the counter. “Is something wrong? I thought all I needed to do was sign a few things.”

“It’s a bit more complicated.”

Yancy feels his heart drop. “I gave you his card. The policy shouldn’t expire until next June...”

“Just hang on,” she tells him, and gestures at somebody else. Somebody with thick glasses and a thin suit. In Alaska. At when the fuck every at night. “She’s going to help you.”

“And who are you?” Yancy demands, perhaps a little too sharply. He can’t remember the last time he saw somebody in this town in a suit.

“Caitlin Lightcap,” she says gently, and offers her hand. “I’m actually a physician here, but I handle these sorts of things as well.”

“What sorts of things?”

But as the doctor starts explaining, all Yancy can hear is the blood pounding in his ears.

The entire family’s policy has been cancelled for at least four months. 

The company Dad was working for fired him over four months ago.

So what the hell has he been doing with all his time? Where does he fucking _go_ during the day?

Doctor Lightcap gives Yancy a few things, a couple different numbers to call, but none of that’s going to change the fact that Yancy could be looking at thousands, _thousands_ , in additional bills he can’t pay. And that doesn’t take into account what _else_ Dad has neglected to tell him. How far in debt they might be. How much more stark this makes their situation, if the cafe’s the only source of income...

Herc doesn’t ask him any questions about it when Yancy comes back over, which Yancy is just so grateful for. And part of him - and not an insignificant part - wants to crawl into Herc’s lap and fall asleep.

“They still want to keep him overnight?” Herc asks instead.

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Herc says, and stands, rental car keys in hand. “Let’s go.”

There’s not much said on the way to the car, and not much more after they get in. Herc’s got the GPS up, but he’s obviously got the wrong location dialed in, which is what Yancy tries to tell him after he misses the street back to the cafe. “Hey, you needed to go right over...”

“No, you’re coming back to the hotel with me. It’s closer, and we’ll get you back before your sis has to go to school, yeah?”

Yancy’s brain locks up. “Umm...”

Herc gives him a sideways look. “What?”

“Just... umm, sounds like the start of a bad porno.”

Herc’s expression goes dubious. “I don’t know what kind of porno you seppos watch...”

“Seppos?”

“Americans. ’S’slang.”

Yancy huffs out a small laugh. “Wouldn’t have guessed.”

Herc just grunts. “You can have Chuck’s room. Sprog don’t use it anyhow.”

“He doesn’t use it?” Yancy echoes, dubious and somewhat disappointed.

“Mako got us a couple of doubles. Waste of good money, that’s what my old man would have said.” Herc shrugs. “Unless you’re into that kind’a thing.” 

He must be exhausted, or missing words, because Yancy really has no idea what Herc is talking about. “What thing?”

“The kind of porno that would start with two blokes in a car.”

“Are you, umm, asking me, or...”

“Or?”

“Or... I don’t know, umm..., ah, offering?”

“Yance, if I was going to proposition some hot piece of American arse, I wouldn’t do it in a hire car, on the way back from him having his daddy’s stomach pumped,” Herc replies with a yawn. 

“You think I’m hot?”

“Jesus,” Herc grumbles. “I know how touchy you straight boys are over here about your sexuality...”

“Naw, it’s okay, I don’t...” - and Yancy knows he shouldn’t say it, but out it comes anyway - “I’m not straight.”

And Herc’s side eye gets even worse, even as they’re pulling into the covered parking at the hotel. “You?”

“What? Alaskans can be gay.”

“No shyness there,” Herc observes and cranks on the parking brake, switching the engine off. “You haven’t said anything to anybody.”

“My dad doesn’t know,” Yancy says honestly, “because fuck him.”

Herc grunts again. “Does this mean Mako’s hiding some interview moment with you where you comment on my arse?”

“No.”

“You don’t like my arse?”

“I, uhh...”

Herc laughs, and claps him on the shoulder. “C’mon, let’s get you some sleep.”

Chuck’s room, when they get up there, is empty. Of Chuck. His suitcase and clothes are there, but the whole room has a very unused feel to it. 

It’s also only got a king bed in it. Which (and Yancy’s no expert on hotel rooms but) probably means Herc’s room, the one on the other side of that set of double-locked barrier doors, is probably just a king as well.

“Take a shower, grab a drink, hell, order room service if you’d like,” Herc tells him quietly from the hall. “What time would you like us to get you up?”

 _Us_. The word rattles around in Yancy’s tired brain. _Us._ “Like, around six?”

“Six it is.”

And just like that, Herc’s gone.

Yancy does take a shower. A nice long one, where he may or may not wank off to the horribly taboo idea of Herc and Chuck... together. It really is a very nice image though, the arrogant younger Hanson on his knees between his daddy’s, those kitchen-rough hands grabbing all that red hair...

So yeah, maybe Yancy stands at the barrier door for a good few minutes after he’s dried off, still naked, wondering what would happen if he knocked.

He doesn’t, though.

Too much at stake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait and short chapter. Holidays, family, we all know how that goes. Plus, I'm still trying to recover from food poisoning. My, that was a blast. *shudders* Thank god I've got a family member who can write prescriptions and other family members with insurance, or I'd probably still be throwing up.


	5. Chapter 5

Normally, Yancy would feel guilty about ordering breakfast on somebody else’s dime, but today, he can’t bring himself to care. He’d woken up at four AM, heart in his throat and chest on fire. Felt like he was going to die, actually. Took him almost half an hour to calm himself down, and that was without calling Raleigh. 

Or banging on the interior door and asking Herc for help. More help.

At least, knowing somebody else - somebody with resources and interest, even if it’s self-interest - was only a few feet away helped Yancy get himself under control. And he laid there in the dark for a good while longer, forcing himself to take deep breaths until his heartbeat slowed to something like normal. 

Room service is twenty-four hours, though, so he ordered himself a greasy, protein-heavy breakfast meat combo thing and got up to take a shower.

It’s five-thirty now. He still feels gross, but significantly less sweaty, as he opens the door and lets the service guy bring his breakfast in. _Tips_ , he hears Mama whispering in the back of his head, and tells the guy to hang on while he gets his wallet.

And it’s there, at the door, handing over a couple of ones, that he sees Chuck.

A sweaty, grumpy-looking, obviously just-back-from-the-gym Chuck.

Yancy realizes he’s still in the towel he threw on after the shower. Only the towel. 

“Thanks again,” Yancy mumbles at the service guy, who nods back and takes off.

Chuck, on the other hand, just sort of... stares at him.

“Dad says you’re gay,” he finally says after they’re definitively alone, with no preamble at all. 

Yancy blinks. “Umm, yeah?”

“Huh.” There’s something appraising in Chuck’s gaze. “Wouldn’t have guessed.”

“It’s not a big fucking deal,” Yancy grumbles.

“Naw, I’m cool,” and Chuck jerks his thumb at the room. “I need to grab a change of clothes.”

There’s no please, but then, there wouldn’t be.

Yancy steps aside. “Be my guest.”

“My room, mate.”

He can’t help himself; Yancy asks. “Thought you were sharing a room with your dad.”

Chuck gives him another strange look, and then walks back over to the door. Slams it. Crosses his arms. “What’re you implying?”

“Nothing, I...”

Eyes narrowing, Chuck starts walking towards him. “Can you keep your mouth shut?”

“Umm...” Yancy tries, more than a little perplexed.

And then Chuck is _on_ him; body pressed against Yancy’s own, hand is sliding up into Yancy’s hair, taking a firm hold. “Cause we don’t do boys who can’t keep their mouth shut.”

The words are practically breathed into Yancy’s mouth, so close is the younger man, and it’s been a long time - too long, far too fucking long - since Yancy was this close to anyone, and it’s on offer, right? So he goes for it.

Grabs the front of Chuck’s exercise-damp tank and kisses him. 

Harder, maybe, than he means to.

Chuck laughs, pulling away, and throws Yancy backwards, straight into the bed. Yancy hits it hard, knees buckling as his calves collide and send him falling back into the unmade sheets. The knot on his towel is slipping, and the terrycloth feels itchy around his hardening cock, a weird sensation.

“When’s the last time you got laid?”

Yancy takes a few more deep breaths. “Gonna let me fuck you, Hansen?”

Chuck snorts. “Show me a decent dinner service, and I’ll consider it.” He comes over anyway. “I’m very selective.”

“Yeah?” Yancy asks. Blood up like this, he’s probably being bolder than he should. But fuck, it’s probably a dream anyway. There’s no reason this should be happening. “Cause right now you’re acting like a bit of a slut.”

The brat actually laughs and leans over him, flipping the edges of Yancy’s towel away from his groin like it disgusts him. “Man’s got his needs.”

“That’s two of us, then,” Yancy tells him, words catching a little, nerves rattling underneath his arousal.

“Not gonna lie, mate, I was plannin’ on doing’ this anyway,” Chuck drawls and flicks his fingers up the underside of Yancy’s cock. “Thought you’d get all blushy and embarrassed on me.”

“Didn’t think you were that kinky, Hansen. Fucking straight guys a hobby for you?”

“Mate,” and Chuck grins, dipping his head and licking - very slowly and very deliberately - across the tip of Yancy’s cock, “everyone’s gay for...”

A loud bang on the door pulls Chuck back though, and Yancy groans as the kid pushes away.

“Jesus, Chuck don’t...”

But Chuck just ignores him completely, jerking open the interior door. “What?!”

Yancy really does go red, seeing Herc standing there, arms folded, a vaguely disappointed expression on his face. “Chuck, really?”

“What’s the problem?”

“We’ve got three days of filming left,” Herc says, like this is somehow an explanation, and looks over at Yancy. “You good?”

He has no idea what to say. “I, uhh, I was?”

Herc scrubs a hand over his face. “Okay, boys, look, this never plays very well on camera...”

“Blue balls don’t play very well on camera, old man,” Chuck protests. 

“Don’t call me that.”

“But dad...”

“Go take a shower,” Herc says, in a low voice that obviously expects to be obeyed.

“Dad...”

“Shower,” Herc says again, a little more forceful, and Chuck stomps off. Like a grumpy teenager who’s just been told off, which in a way, Yancy supposes, he is.

Sitting up cross-legged on the bed, Yancy reaches for a pillow to throw over his lap. His stupid dick is embarrassingly hard. “So, umm,” he starts.

Herc just holds up a hand. “Sorry the sprog interrupted your brekkie.”

“Huh?” And Yancy looks back over at the desk. Oh yeah. He’d ordered food. That’s right. And he’d locked that interior door on his side. Had Chuck unlocked it? “It’s umm, what?”

“Chuck’s a good kid, just gets a little excited sometimes. And he’ll deny it, but he gets all clingy after sex.”

Yancy tries to think about Chuck Hansen, terror of kitchens the world over, being _clingy_. “So you know he’s gay?”

“Bit hard to miss it, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, uhh, I guess?”

Herc’s expression changes. Softer, maybe. Curious? Or something. Yancy’s not really sure. “Eat your brekkie, Yancy. We’ll head out in a bit, yeah?”

“Okay,” he agrees.

But collapses back down on his back after Herc leaves, the door lock very distinctly sliding into place.

Seriously. 

What the _fuck_ just happened?

It’s not until they’re in the van, on their way back to the cafe, that Yancy realizes that Chuck had said _we_ and not _I_. 

But really, that can’t possibly mean what he thinks it might, could it?

+++++

Raleigh can almost hear the voice-over for the episode in his head, can imagine what Chef Hansen - the older, less hot one - might be telling the camera right now out of the street.

_After dinner service last night, Yancy had to take Richard to hospital, where he remains for further evaluation. It’s a blow for the boys, as their father is a key component in their business model..._

Or something.

“But you got some, right?” Raleigh asks Yancy again in a low voice, leaning over so he can whisper it in his brother’s ear. Mako is fussing with Tendo over on the other side of the cafe. More B-roll shots, probably. Talking to some of the kids who are in for coffee and pastries and studying; Raleigh does know quite a few people on campus, and for those in his program, he’s at least been able to explain the gypsy. So the Gipsy Cafe does have a reputation in the civil engineering department for being a good quiet place to spread out and work.

It doesn’t really help overall, but during the day, they do have some people here.

It’s the least Raleigh can do. He’s pretty sure his brother isn’t telling him plenty about this situation, which is irritating. He’s not a child; he’s twenty-two and he’s graduating college next semester and he should be able to shoulder some of this load. Things would be better, Raleigh just knows it, if Yancy would fucking accept some _help_.

Really, Raleigh’s just amazed that Yancy actually agreed to the show at all.

“I did not get any,” Yancy grumbles, not looking at Raleigh.

And Raleigh grins. “You did! Good for you, bro! Chuck’s hot...”

“You’re straight, Rals.”

“What, like I can’t tell that he’s hot?” And Raleigh bumps his shoulder. “C’mon, it’s about time you got laid. When’d you break up with Casey? Like, a year ago?”

“Year and a half,” Yancy grumbles.

Raleigh nods. Yeah, that break up been horrible. Casey had turned into such a douche. Like Yancy wanted to be working fourteen hour days, nights spent trying to care for their dying mother in the evenings and Dad’s burgeoning drinking problem. But nope, wasn’t enough for Casey; if Raleigh remembers right, their last fight was over Yancy not being out to his family.

Raleigh’s still not sure what that even means. Yancy’s been out to _him_ since he came home from sex ed in sixth grade and asked what the teacher meant by _gay sex_.

There have never been any secrets between them.

None.

Why was it so damn important that their dad know?

“Right? Time you had some fun.”

Yancy finally glares at him. “What is your deal?”

Raleigh shrugs. “You just deserve something other than this crap.” Yancy always seems to get the raw end of things. Asshole boyfriends, Dad’s drunken bullshit, Mama corralling him here instead of encouraging him to leave... nobody puts Yancy first. Nobody but _him_ , and it hurts Raleigh to see everybody else treat his brother with so little care. Sometimes he thinks that nobody else is good enough for Yancy; Yancy deserves so much better than what he usually gets. “You deserve to be happy.”

“Random sex in a hotel room is not my definition of happiness.”

“Since when? You used to love...” And Yancy reaches over and flicks his ear. It hurts just enough to startle the rest of that sentence out of Raleigh’s mouth, and it’s really not fair. “Ow!”

“Rals, if you wanna know what it’s like, go pick up some drunk frat boy at your next house party. You don’t need to vicariously live your homo curiosity through my complete lack of a sex life,” Yancy grumbles, getting up, and he actually sounds upset.

But... huh. Raleigh’s never really thought about doing something like that. He’s not curious about gay sex, is he? This is just about Yancy for him. _What if it was about YANCY?_ something whispers in the back of his mind.

“I’m not!” he protests, a little too loud.

Loud enough to get Mako’s attention, over on the other side of the room, and she turns around, coming towards them.

“Fuck,” Yancy grumbles.

But it’s just about then that Chef Hansen comes back in.

“Alright boys,” he says, grabbing a chair and helping himself to a seat at their booth, “I think it’s time we had a real good talk about what you want out of this place.”

“What do you mean?” Yancy asks. He sounds tired. Not that he hasn’t been tired for years, but it’s been especially bad since the Hansens got here. 

“I mean, if you had a blank slate here, what would you do with it?” He looks over at Raleigh. “These are some of your mates in here today, yeah? What do they want?”

“Umm,” Raleigh says, and tries not to look at his brother. They’d had this conversation with Mama. More than once. “Good food?”

“What else?”

“A nice study space, a space that’s kind of cool and fun but not too noisy...”

“We’re not a coffee shop, Rals.”

“We don’t need to be that,” Raleigh says with a shrug. “I mean, it’s nice to be able to go and sit down somewhere and be served, get a big bowl of pasta or whatever.”

“I don’t want to do pasta.”

“Everybody loves pasta.”

“This is what I’m talking about,” Chef Hansen interrupts. “We need to readjust what we’re doing here so that it works for the neighborhood. And you, Yancy.”

Yancy blinks. “It works fine for me.”

“You’re holding on to your mother’s legacy, I can understand that. But she’s gone. Your father is obviously unable to help much here, and let me tell you from personal experience, no business endeavor can be successful unless it’s a reflection of you.” Mako’s there just off camera with notepad and pen, and Chef Hansen waves her over. “So let’s talk, boys. Who are you?”

Raleigh knows exactly how painful it must be for Yancy to answer that. He’d like to think he’s not an idiot; Raleigh’s well aware that Yancy’s been holding onto Gipsy because of Mama. Before she died, he’d been trying to get her to change some things. Smaller menu, cleaner decor, that stuff. But since she’s been gone? Nothing.

So he’s really proud of his big brother when he finally says:

“I’ve got a soft spot for southern French cuisine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally talked to a doc from the VA (off the record ofc: despite being the group that kills themselves in the highest numbers, nobody seems to give two shits about non-combat vets. Or at least, that's how it feels). Apparently I'm having panic attacks again. Which is just so much fun. Especially when you don't have health insurance to actually go see somebody for it. *beats head into wall*


	6. Chapter 6

Strictly speaking, Herc hates shit like that old Restaurant Impossible show. He’d actually cited that as an example of why he didn’t want to do Restaurant Rescue, back when Stacks approached him and the sprog with the offer. That happy hands at home look that always resulted was irritating; restaurant remodels, in his experience, are best when highly restrained or extremely expensive. Trying to change everything on a budget never ends well. 

And he doesn’t have a huge budget.

Okay, well, maybe he does. But fuck the studio. Remodel porn isn’t the in thing anymore anyway. And Herc doesn’t believe in just bringing in some contractors and changing everything overnight, just like that. He’s not here to be anybody’s goddamn fairy godmother. Nobody appreciates what they’re given, only what they build for themselves; one of the many painful lessons he learned from dealing with Scott’s bullshit. Herc far prefers shutting down for a night or two and having the owners help.

So that’s what they’re doing.

Even if it means he’s got to leave Chuck alone with Yancy in the kitchen for prolonged periods of time, letting the boys work out a new menu for the new brand. 

“You’re pretty good with a paint roller,” he tells the younger Becket boy, who smiles back. 

They’ve been at it most of the morning, moving tables, pruning the damn Pier One clutter, taking down pictures and covering up the carpet. Raleigh’s already cut in the new color - a peaceful, pale blue, icy as the face of a glacier and almost as white - along the ceiling and baseboards, and he’s deftly covering the walls now. That strange gold vanishing. He’s much better at it than Herc is, which is why Herc’s taking a breather, going over his notes, letting the kid take the lead here.

It’s almost peaceful right now. The cameras are gone, Tendo capturing enough B-roll and conversation for a good little montage and Mako off working on a rough-draft narration script while it’s all still fresh.

Papa Becket is still at hospital, and Jaz is at school.

Just them.

“I’ve got a couple of connections with general contractors in town,” Raleigh replies serenely.

“Internships?” The boy had said he was studying some kind of construction management, wasn’t he?

“No. Money,” Raleigh says, turning back to his wall. “Demo on the weekends, interiors finishing during the winter. The real good money, for unskilled stuff anyway, is in framing, carpentry, but you gotta get the walls up by the time the snow hits.” He shrugs. “Can’t pour foundations or work outside in December.”

“You work a lot?”

“When I can. Summer’s better, like I said.” He has to stop, roll more paint on the fuzzy cylinder at the end of his pole, and gives Herc a look. “Yancy doesn’t like me working during school, but construction fits with my degree, so...”

Herc nods. Smart. At first blush, he’d thought Raleigh rather vapid. Pretty and goofy, like a puppy after butterflies or something. He might not be as outwardly serious as his brother, but he’s no less tuned in. No less aware.

No less attractive, either. But then, Herc would like to think he has better self-control than his Chuck does. One of them has to be the adult. They live far too much of their lives in the spotlight. The Beckets might be adorable, but a casual fuck is a casual fuck. No chance for one of them turning into anything more; no way Herc is ever going to jeopardize what he has with his son for sex with boys - _a boy_ \- he barely knows.

“Clever.”

“We need the money.”

“Could you do less of that and help more here?”

“I’d love to.” 

“Then why don’t you?”

Raleigh opens his mouth, like he’s about to make some protest, but shuts it slowly. Clearly processing that idea. And then he smiles again. “Maybe I’ll offer,” he says. “He’s a lot more open with you around.”

And that, Herc is genuinely curious about. “Because?”

“He’s been drowning in all this. So the help’s good,” Raleigh says quietly, thoughtfully. “And, uh, I think he’s a bit, umm, enamored.”

“Enamored? Are you telling me your brother’s got a...”

“Oh no,” Raleigh says, a little too quickly. “I didn’t mean, like...”

“He told me,” Herc replies, as kindly as he can. “If that’s what you mean.”

“He told you that he’s...”

“Gay? Yeah.”

“He, umm... he did?”

“We’re not going to put it in the episode,” Herc says, and immediately kicks himself for the way Raleigh’s face tightens up. Shit, these two need a father, don’t they? A real one? _That’s not your job either._ “Look, I’ve got gay... Chuck’s gay. I understand.”

“Chuck’s gay?” Raleigh’s looking at him warily. “And you’re telling me because you’re, like, so good with secrets?”

“Goddammit,” Herc grumbles. “I thought you and Yancy talked.”

“We do,” Raleigh says defensively. “But he said he didn’t get laid last night, so I assumed...”

“This a common topic of conversation around your house?”

“Huh?”

 _Boys_ , Herc thinks, but really, it’s not his job to fix the general weirdness that must be the Becket household. “Your brother’s personal life.”

“Oh.” Raleigh stops. Fidgets a little. “He doesn’t have much of a personal life. It sucks for him, you know?”

“Not for you?”

“I’ve got college, and he gave... he, umm, he’s been here.” Raleigh shrugs, and dips the roller again. Squeegees it out. Erases another swath of his mother’s wall. 

He doesn’t say anything else.

Herc can live with that. He’s always been better at listening than talking. And Raleigh’s quiet is soothing.

His own guilt over it, on the other hand...

But these boys aren’t his. Yancy’s not his. 

_Shame_ , he thinks to himself, and goes back to his notes.

+++++

After the mindfuck of this morning, Yancy could really use some good news. But nothing’s forthcoming. Herc abandons him in the kitchen with Chuck, both Hansen men acting like nothing happened at all the past twelve hours. Raleigh ditches school, even though Yancy’s told him not to do that shit. Jaz did go to class today - thank god - but Dad hasn’t called. And that’s something Yancy really, really need to deal with.

He’s got a terrible feeling that this thing is far worse than lost insurance coverage.

Yancy’s always known his dad was a bit... well, not flighty, but definitely untethered. He’s got two or three degrees in economics, finance, that sort of thing, but wine’s always been his chief passion. Back before he’d met Mama, he’d traveled a lot, supporting himself mostly through freelance consulting and real estate investment. He’d bought into a couple different wineries in California and was working as a sales rep in San Francisco, when he bumped into her at one of those Taste Of events. She’d been a sous chef at the time, and Yancy had always loved how their account of that first meeting got more ridiculous and exaggerated as time went on. 

Mama had also always said how hard it had been for her to date, back then. She had been a five-foot-four slip of a Frenchwoman, in an industry dominated by men - European men, to boot, guys she’d never felt comfortable around. Toughness was a pre-requisite for success. 

But Dad was an American, without any hang-ups, and more importantly, he didn’t have a set office job. He could do what he did from anywhere. Wasn’t intimidated in the slightest by a woman who had job offers on two continents.

It also allowed Dad to get closer to what he wanted to really do. His interest in wine developed into expertise, and by the time Yancy was a young teen, Dad was already working as head sommelier at the same restaurant as Mama.

Yancy’s never wanted to really think about that too much. His parents loved each other, he’s sure of that, and is it wrong that they found themselves a set-up that was equally convenient for both of them? It’s not like they were using each other... Mama had wanted children, a real family, and Dad had wanted...

He does wonder sometimes.

What did Dad want?

Because ever since Mama died, all he’s done is pull away. Every interaction more and more strained, like he’s having to fake affection for his own kids. Or something. Longer hours at the investment firm where he’s working - worked. More silence. Fewer grudging conversations about the cafe. Yancy’s chalked it up to grief thus far, but this...

He just doesn’t know anymore.

Yancy stuffs it as far away from what’s going on as he can. Chuck is insistent on them getting a menu put together today, move this thing as far forward as they can. Before the cameras left, he held one of the old menus to the range and let the thing burn. _”You got it, mate? The past is gone. Time to do your own thing.”_ It’ll probably make a very nice dramatic moment for the show. However it makes Yancy himself look.

 _Doesn’t matter,_ he tells himself for what has to be the hundredth time this week.

Except now, this isn’t about saving Mama’s cafe. That’s gone, Raleigh out front, helping Herc literally erase it from their space. It’s not about Mama, but him, and when Herc asked him what he wanted...

It’s not that Yancy’s not up to the challenge of running, owning his own place. But he’s not really running it, is he? And he sure as hell doesn’t own it. Dad’s signature is on every piece of paperwork; the financials all held in Dad’s computer. (Password protected; he checked already) This isn’t his, and Dad’s not here, so why the hell is he saving it?

That’s an even more uncomfortable thought, though.

This whole thing is uncomfortable.

He settles himself to the task of bouncing ideas off Chuck, sitting there around the giant pad of paper and set of colored Sharpies - provided by Mako - and scrawling out dishes. Fast, easy, tasty, maybe with a little bit of an unhealthy twist; Alaskans tend to think of French food as snooty, but Yancy likes the idea of good, hearty bistro fare. Rabbits and farm-raised pork out, venison and fresh ocean fish in. Maybe duck as a special sometimes. College kids want the filling and familiar.

Fortunately, too, the hipster phase has largely passed. No more need to put bacon in everything, or make everything quirky. Cinnamon spaghetti. That old shit. Streamlined and classic, that’s what people want now, traditional fare done extremely well. It’s all dependent on good ingredients, of course - which is probably why that sort of thing went away for so long, considering just how bland commercial farming methods makes everything taste - but he can handle that. He hopes.

It’s a challenge at least. Something to put his shoulder into. 

If Dad will let him. If anybody will give him a second chance.

“We aren’t going to do some shit where, like, I have to talk to Naomi, are we?” he asks, as they’re going over desserts - Chuck and Yancy can both agree on pastries as a good option, both as morning bites and afternoon pick-me-ups. 

Chuck looks confused. “Who’s Naomi?”

“The chick that wrote that article.”

“Ah, yeah, naw, Dad was thinkin’ about it but it’d be a stupid thing to put on TV,” Chuck replies dismissively. “Everybody’s so goddamn touchy about racism or whatever.”

“It’s not racist.”

“She thinks it is.”

“She’s an idiot.”

“We don’t gotta talk about it,” Chuck says, a little softer, and looks at him. “Would your mum want us splashing it all over the telly like that?”

Yancy’s throat tightens. “Since when do you care about my mom, Hansen?”

The kid arches an eyebrow. “Well, you obviously do.” And he coughs, tapping the paper. “Going back to this, what would you think about rotating through a larger menu of pastry on a weekly basis? Figure out your bestsellers and offer those special on the weekends.”

Avoidance.

At this point, it doesn’t surprise Yancy in the least.

+++++

They all call it quits around eight.

Sasha and Aleksis came in around lunchtime to help with the furniture. Jaz ditched her last two classes to scam a ride from Mako and the rest of the production team. Herc had a dozen small projects in mind, and Yancy comes out of the kitchen with an armload of food to see him directing the group with the precision of a general.

It’s kind of sexy.

“Anybody hungry?” he calls, ignoring the thought. Chuck’s gay, Herc’s... probably not, and while Yancy could really use the orgasm Chuck was offering this morning, he’s still got his pride. He doesn’t need to get laid that badly. Bad. Whatever.

“This the new menu?” Herc asks. Behind him, Raleigh is automatically rearranging one of the large tables in the center of the room for all of them, Jaz going for flatware. Yancy likes the way the place is coming together, cool and a little more hip, Mama’s - admittedly stuffy - tablecloths gone, the kitsch mostly tidied away, a few pieces obviously set aside for recycling into the new design. There are stacks of picture frames on one table, spray paint, boxes with glass vases in them... he doesn’t know exactly what this is going to look like by opening time tomorrow night, but it’s going to be his.

“Naw,” Chuck says, following up with a couple bottles of wine. Yancy does know where Dad keeps the keys for their small wine cellar, and right now, he needs a drink. “Staff dinner, cleanin’ up the fridges. We’ll go over menu testing tomorrow.”

“I need to place an order to my suppliers,” Yancy adds, offloading family-loaded plates into the middle of the table with practiced ease. He’s been waiting tables since he was fifteen, and he likes this part. Where people actually enjoy what he’s made for them. It would be great if there was more of that going forward. “I, uhh...”

“I’ll see what we can do about getting you set up for the next few months,” Herc says, and sniffs appreciatively at the platter of quick coq-au-vin Yancy spent the bulk of his time working on. “Have you heard anything more from your father? He and I do need to discuss finances.”

“Nothing,” Yancy says, and looks at his siblings; Raleigh, who’s pouring himself a glass of wine, and Jazmine, who’s got a fork in a piece of stewed beef. “You two?”

“Nope.”

“Hasn’t responded to any of my texts.”

Herc lets it drop. Switches topics. Starts telling war stories. Stories that Chuck promptly calls bullshit on, and the arguing starts up.

Mako, just off camera, gets a few minutes of them bantering back and forth, before Herc tells her and Tendo to _calm the fuck down and pull up a chair_. Pentecost, the producer, shows up about fifteen minutes later. They eat, they drink, and drink some more.

It’s... nice.

Feels like a team. A family. And Yancy knows it’s all going to end in a few days, and he’s getting drunk enough to let himself wish it wouldn’t. Because he’s going to be alone doing this now; Mama’s well and truly gone, Raleigh and Jaz finishing up their schooling and leaving him behind, like they damn well should, Dad uninterested, nobody here to teach him, help him grow, push him to be more than what he is right now, like Herc and Chuck have been doing the last couple of days...

No. He’s got reality to deal with.

“Yance, you doing okay?” 

It’s Raleigh, words light but eyes worried, and Yancy blinks, trying to focus on the empty plates scattered about the table. His vision is a bit blurry. How many glasses of Dad’s chardonnay has he had tonight? He can feel his heart starting to speed up, that overwhelming need to _run_ that he felt last night coming over him again...

“Yeah,” he says, taking a deep lungful of air. “Fine. Just thinking about Mama.”

“I miss her,” Jaz says.

“I miss her too, kiddo,” Yancy tells her, and gets up, faking a stretch, gathering the empty plates. 

“We can do the dishes later,” Raleigh tells him.

“No time like the present,” Yancy says with a lightness he doesn’t feel, and escapes to the kitchen before whatever this is can overflow.

He’d had dreams of studying in Paris, once upon a time. Mama hadn’t been all that happy about it which is why he’d mostly applied to American schools, but he always held out hope he could go work there. That admissions letter to the top French school in the US had been thrilling. Even if he had to call them and tell them he couldn’t attend. _My mother has cancer._

And Yancy’s built up a whole story around this. Maybe like the story he’s built up around his parents’ relationship. Telling her, insisting he was going to stay at home for her and his siblings. Mama, tearfully proud, telling him to go to school, that his education was more important than them...

That wasn’t the kind of woman Mama was, though. To her, family was everything, especially since she’d had to leave her own behind. Yancy was her oldest son, her first born, heir to her craft and... well, there was a reason Yancy didn’t apply to culinary school straight out of high school. It took him almost a year to talk himself into sending in that application. Just the one. Just in case. 

He had to know if he was good enough.

Mama wouldn’t have been happy about him leaving her. To do it with her sick would have been an unimaginable act of betrayal. She never would have forgiven him for it. And on the off chance she’d gone into remission - the doctors had only given her eighteen months at best - Yancy didn’t want to risk her never speaking to him again.

Shoving the dishes into the same soapy water where he’s got the pans soaking, Yancy tries to brace himself up. 

He’d had one chance, and now it’s gone, and this is what he’s got. This week is probably the closest he’ll ever get again to working with a world-class chef. Fuck, he’d almost rather wash dishes at Uluru in London or Back of Beyond in Sydney if it meant being able to...

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” Herc says. Yancy startles. Turns around, to see the chef watching him, the rest of the dishes in his hands. He sets them down on the edge of the stainless steel sink, eyes on Yancy. “This shit with your dad?”

It takes Yancy a second to realize that’s a question, not a statement. 

But mostly, he’s focused on how damn hot Herc looks like right. Sure, his chef whites are drool-worthy, but somehow, the paint-splattered khakis and ancient henley he’s got on right now, loose sleeves rolled up above his elbows, famously trashy ink tracing down across bulging biceps...

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he repeats, standing his ground, frozen to the side of the sink. 

Herc cocks his head. “This about the sprog?”

Yancy swallows. “No.”

That gets him a nod. And a little grunt.

And then Herc’s in his space. Right on top of him. Hands on either side of Yancy’s body, fingers curled around the lip of the sink. 

Yancy’s heart speeds up for a whole different reason.

“Wanted to thank you for dinner,” Herc murmurs, mouth so close to Yancy’s own. The younger man can smell the wine on his breath. They’ve both had too much to drink. “You’re a bloody good cook.”

“I’d like to think so.”

“Your mum’d be proud.”

“She’d be pissed.”

Herc makes a little humming noise. “I doubt that.”

“Gypsies don’t leave their families.”

“You’re only half gypsy, mate.”

“More her son than his.”

“And you haven’t gone anywhere.”

“I’ve wanted to. Tried...”

“Yeah, but fuck school. This industry’s about experience,” Herc says, and the pads of his kitchen-rough fingers run up Yancy’s side. “Me and the sprog, we’d show you everything you needed to know.”

Breath hitching in his chest, Yancy takes a chance. “Maybe not everything.”

“Everything,” Herc says, like he’s making some kind of vow, and his fingers wrap around Yancy’s throat.

Push his face up into a kiss.

Yancy doesn’t struggle, only managing to keep himself from responding. Herc tries - and oh, how Yancy wants him to - but it’s over almost before it begins. Regret lingering between them as Herc pulls away again.

“You’re better than this fucking place. Come work for me,” he whispers, fingers rubbing gently against the stubbled skin of Yancy’s throat. It’s an unmistakable sensation of being _claimed_ ; impossible to not wonder. How that would be. How much he’d learn. How much fucking fun he’d have. Where he could go, once they were done with him. What kind of life he could leverage that offer into.

And he likes no-strings sex as much as the next guy, but Yancy isn’t necessarily after _convenience_. Or dependence. 

“Wouldn’t that ruin the show?” he asks, shaky.

Herc finally lets him go, hands coming away with one last little brush. “Reckon it might at that,” he says, all business again, adjusting himself a bit. Yancy can see the bulge in his pants, but forces himself to look away. He’s just drunk enough to not give a shit if his entire family walked in on him sucking the big Aussie off. “I am gonna need to look at the financials tomorrow.”

“I’ll call the bank,” Yancy says with a shrug, thinking of something. “I do know his social security number.”

“Sneaky,” Herc laughs. And, with one last pat to Yancy’s cheek, steps away.

Yancy doesn’t watch him go, eyes falling to the floor, half-closed, body flush with this stupid fire Chef Hansen lit in him.

He does look up though, when he hears:

“Excuse me.”

Raleigh. At the door. With a really strange expression on his face.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You, SB, this is all your fault. Aaaaaaaaaall your fault. Here I was, trying to keep things clean. *sobs* I don't even know anymore...
> 
> And I had a dream last night that Herc Hansen re-upholstered my sofa. Go figure.

Yancy’s not sure what to say to Raleigh. 

Not like he owes the kid an explanation.

This is hardly the worst thing Raleigh’s caught him doing over the years - Casey had been one of those guys with zero shame and a huge chip on his shoulder. Back when the biggest thing Yancy had to worry about was getting up early enough to get the ovens going for Mama, he’d let that fuckhead talk him into all kinds of shit, do things, he’s embarrassed to remember now. Some of it in their own house, when Dad was away on business...

Had Dad been away on business?

Hell. What else is he going to have to worry about here? What else has Dad been lying about?

It’s not the time to be worrying about that, though, because Raleigh hasn’t made a sign one of his usual gleeful remarks, and that, that is strange. _Yeah, your straight little brother isn’t giddy about asking you about sucking face, everything’s totally fine._

Yancy hates his life right now.

“Umm, so I was, uhh, gonna finish this and hit the sack,” Yancy says, sidestepping the entire thing completely. “You guys are done for the night, right?”

“I’ll finish washing up,” Raleigh says mildly. “I’ve got it. You get some sleep.”

He peels latex blue paint from the back of his left hand as Yancy flees in the calmest manner possible.

But no. He’s not free of this hellish twenty-four hours yet. Not safe from it anywhere, not even in his own goddamn bedroom. Because there’s a knock about twenty minutes later, and this whole thing is starting to become a giant porno.

Not that Yancy watches incest porn.

Or that he thinks about his little brother that way.

Or...

Goddamn. Nothing’s been right since the Hansens rolled into town.

“Hey, Yance?”

“What?”

“It’s cold in my room.”

“And?”

“You always say gay guys are good cuddlers, right?”

“Raleigh, if this is about Herc...”

“Naw, that was, umm, like, that looked pretty nice, actually.”

“Raleigh, what the fuck?”

“Bet you’d cuddle with him.”

The kid makes comments like this from time to time, and normally, Yancy would give him some line about not being a vehicle for his bi-curiosity. Normally, it shuts stuff like... this... up. Truth be told, though, Yancy’s not sure if Raleigh is constantly referencing his sexuality because it’s funny to him, or because he’s actually interested in... that. 

Sometimes, Yancy wonders if it’s his fault. 

He doubts both of them would turn out gay, statistically speaking. But neither Mama nor Dad wanted to talk to Raleigh about sex, which made it Yancy’s job to straighten out all those stupid misconceptions and fill in the holes from sex ed at school, from movies, from other kids. Yancy doesn’t know much about girls, though - whatever the male equivalent of a gold star lesbian is, that’s him - so everything he told his little brother back then was definitely gay-flavored. 

Not that he would care if Raleigh developed an interest in men. Nothing wrong with it. But... it just seems like one of them should have a normal life, and if he’s taking that away from his brother...

At this point, Raleigh should have filled in the heterosexual gaps from college buddies and his own experimentation. He shouldn’t need to _needle_ like this. And he definitely shouldn’t be doing it in his PJs, at night, in Yancy’s bedroom, when Yancy has fucking blue balls from Chefs Hansen and Hansen.

Yancy feels his stomach start churning again, that fire heating up again, the one from this morning.

“You’re not five, Rals,” he mumbles and pulls the blankets up a little more.

“I still get cold.”

Damn. He’s not going away, is he? 

It’s plaintive enough - and his blood alcohol content just high enough - that Yancy, with a groan, looks up at him. “Jaz already in bed?”

“She’s in her room.” Raleigh bites his lip. “I get it.”

Doing homework, then, or more likely, chatting online with friends. Probably telling them about how cute Chef Hansen and Hansen really are in real life. She won’t come out until somebody bangs on her door in the morning to get her up for school.

_I get it._

Jesus.

Yancy doesn’t even want to think about what Raleigh means by that.

“Get in here,” he says, and flicks back a corner of the blankets. He’s so glad he actually left his boxers on tonight, instead of just crawling into bed naked like he normally does. “Before I fucking change my mind.”

Raleigh beams.

The kid’s a damn hyperactive puppy sometimes. Even dead tired, he manages to be spunky. 

In truth, Yancy loves it. Loves Raleigh.

Not like that, though. Nope. Nuh uh. Not...

“Who gave you permission to be big spoon?”

Because yeah, Raleigh’s got himself wrapped around Yancy’s back, cold feet nudging against Yancy’s thighs, holding _him_. Holding Yancy, instead of insisting on it being the other way around. 

Yancy’s touched.

Or would be, if he could let himself.

Or no... fuck, no, no touching, good fucking lord...

Raleigh touches his shoulder. Just touches it. It’s _definitely_ not a kiss. Not a chance. Haha. No way. “You doing okay?”

“Fine.”

“You’d tell me, right?”

“Rals...”

“You would tell me.”

And Raleigh says it with such certainty - and it feels so good, so _right_ , having somebody actually hold him like he means something - that Yancy might say something he probably shouldn’t.

“I’m tryin’ Raleigh. I’m trying to make this okay.”

“But?”

“Just keep feeling like everything’s about to go tits up. Like, physically feel like it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m just stressed,” Yancy mutters. “Heart starts racing and my stomach hurts and can’t breath and it’s... it’ll pass. It goes away. I’m okay.”

“You feel like that now?”

“No,” he lies, and lays a hand over one of Raleigh’s. “I’m fine.”

Raleigh nods against his back. Yancy can feel his hair - soft hair, very soft, goddammit - on his shoulder, and Raleigh’s arms squeeze a little tighter. 

“Think you’re having anxiety attacks,” Raleigh says, and hugs tighter to him. 

Yancy huffs. “What the hell?”

“We learned about it in psych class. It’s a stress thing.”

“This damn show should take care of that.”

“What, like we’re at the end where we all cry for the camera and tell Chef Hansen that he’s changed our lives?” Raleigh snorts quietly. “Talking helps.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“What about Dad?”

“What about him?”

“Where is he? Why’s he doing this to us? Why doesn’t he care?”

The damn kid’s got a chubby. Yancy can feel it. Seems a bit strange, considering what they’re talking about - or not talking about - and... yeah. Yancy’s whole life has gone to hell, hasn’t it? 

“I don’t know,” he replies honestly and turns around carefully. It puts him almost nose to nose with his little brother, who won’t let go of him. Well, Raleigh can do whatever he wants, but that doesn’t mean Yancy’s got to touch him. “Doesn’t matter. I’m still here.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“Damn straight.” Normally, this close to another guy, another guy’s erection pressing into his thigh, another guy’s _hands_ on his body, Yancy wouldn’t hesitate. And yeah, maybe he does really need to get off. Fucking blue balls. Fucking Hansens. But this is his little brother, so he’s absolutely not getting hard himself...

“Hey Yance.”

“What?” His damn brother’s got his head pillowed on Yancy’s arm now. 

“This is nice. Don’t you think?”

 _No._ Cuddling with some sex at the end would be nice. Sex with Herc. Or Chuck. Or Herc and Chuck. Not his brother... _why,_ his brain asks, _because incest is wrong, haha?_ “Yeah, kid. We don’t hang out so much anymore, do we?”

“No, we don’t.” 

“We should.”

“I’d like that.”

“Maybe not when you’ve got wood though, okay?”

Raleigh’s eyes open. Blink. And he smiles ruefully. “Umm, I should take care of that, huh?”

“Umm...”

And then the little shithead grins. _Grins_. “Unless you wanna do it for me.”

“You’re drunk.”

“No I’m not.”

“I’m drunk.”

“If we’re both drunk, it doesn’t count.”

“Rals...”

“Fine,” Raleigh says with a bit of a sigh, and rolls over, onto his back and out of Yancy’s arms. The sudden departure of all that warmth is a bit disconcerting. As is the way Raleigh kicks the blankets off. Much less how he shoves his sleep pants down, reddened cock springing free, tall and proud, out from its little nest of dark blond curls. “I’ll deal with it myself.”

“Wait, Rals...”

But the kid’s humming a little, tugging at his cock like he’s twelve and has no idea what he’s doing and seriously, come _on_ , that’s going to hurt in the morning...

“Jesus,” Yancy groans, because he doesn’t really want to listen to Raleigh whine about his cock hurt tomorrow (and Raleigh will; he absolutely will). “Who taught you how to jack off?”

“You did.”

Did he? Oh yeah. He did. But that was a conversation and a couple of very awkward demonstrations on bananas, maybe. It did not involve real dicks, especially not dicks as nice as Raleigh’s looks right now and...

Hell.

“You’re a shit learner then,” Yancy grumbles, and scoots closer, up on his elbow. “Here.” He licks his palm. “Let’s get this shit over with.”

Raleigh smiles like he’s won something.

His brother. His _little brother_. And...

“Can you reach the light?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Turn it off.”

It’s easier, once Yancy can’t see those pretty blue eyes, to wrap his hand around his brother’s cock. 

It’s easier, once he doesn’t have to think of it as Raleigh’s. Because this is a nice dick in his hand, fits real nice in his palm, thicker in the middle and just the right length. Kind of like Yancy’s own, actually, which is such a disturbing thought he almost lets go. He takes a few experimental twists, trying to remember what he normally does with another guy’s dick, trying to put it out of his mind as to whose this is, thinking about Chuck this morning and everything he wanted to do to the brat... except that included putting the kid on his knees and watching blue eyes fill up with tears as he gags on Yancy’s...

And then Raleigh - out of instinct or need or because he’s being a _shit_ right now and knows that Yancy’s freaking out - hooks his leg up over the top of Yancy’s thigh.

Bringing their groins straight together.

Raleigh inhales.

Yancy groans.

Things go a little...

Well.

Yancy stops caring that they’re related.

He twists his fingers, opening his hand and letting his own cock slide against Raleigh’s in his palm, his free hand coming around to dip under the fleshy part of the kid’s buttcheek. That is some _nice_ muscle and he ruts up shamelessly into it, pre-cum or sweat making the slide between them easier, clothing riding up or pushed away. Friction quickly disappears; the slide of it, his velvety erection against that deliciously hard body, is exactly what he needs right now. It’s dirty and mindless and completely graceless. This is about getting off as fast as possible, so they can get up in the morning and pretend, pretend like this...

Raleigh comes before he does, stiffening and then going boneless with a soft little groan, warmth spilling all through the space between them. If Yancy was more in control of himself, he might have been able to stop, but all he wants to do right then is pull Raleigh’s face around with cum-sticky fingers and kiss him with every bit of need he feels right now.

So that’s what he does.

And then comes on the kid’s stomach.

It feels so good to finally cum that Yancy doesn’t move like he should. Do what he should. Instead, he lays there like the useless lump he is, watching Raleigh watch him. The awe in his little brother’s eyes is something he hasn’t seen in a while; it’s the way Raleigh used to look at him when they were kids, when he felt like his big brother was teaching him the secrets of the universe. 

Feels good to see that too.

But reality is what it is, and Yancy hasn’t come that much in a while; as much as he enjoys seeing Raleigh wearing his - wait, what the fuck? _Jesus, you asshole, just clean him up_.

Yeah, he’s going to hell.

“Wait, Yance, don’t,” Raleigh says, more than a little panicked, grabbing for him when he gets up.

Clingy, so the kid’s clingy after sex... which is not a piece of information Yancy needs to have or will ever use again. Ever. “It’s okay,” he still says, and squeezes Raleigh’s hand. Resists the urge to kiss him again. His lips were so soft. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Okay,” Raleigh says. But Yancy still has to tug his hand free.

The bathroom’s at the end of the hall, and Yancy knows he’s risking it by going out naked. No light is escaping from Jazmine’s door though; it’s late enough; she’ll be asleep. 

Still, he moves fast.

“Whatcha doin’?” Raleigh asks when he gets back, voice already heavy with sleep.

Yancy rolls his eyes, but lets himself kiss his little brother’s forehead as he sits down next to him, cloth sliding over the evidence of what they just did, cleaning it away from all the places where it's touching skin. Dammit, Yancy knows he should feel guilty, but the satisfaction of orgasm hasn’t left him yet or something; he just feels happy. “I don’t know what girls are like, but we tend to get sticky. No fun waking up glued to your bedmate.”

Raleigh yawns and closes his eyes. “Do’ know.”

Yeah. Right. Like his little brother hasn’t been knee-deep in pussy for the last three years. He’s had more than a few girlfriends, of that Yancy’s sure. And while Yancy’s heard they can be a lot more temperamental when it comes to getting some - or whatever girls call it? - Raleigh’s... pretty. Does that do it for girls? Pretty boys? 

Because it would be totally unfair of the universe for this to be Raleigh’s...

No. Nope. He absolutely did not just pop his brother’s cherry. That would involve...

No.

They ain’t gonna do that either.

Raleigh is _straight_. And his brother. And...

All he meant is that he’s never had to deal with this much cum after sex before. Haha. That’s it.

A limp hand reaches out for him, fingers loose as they fall on Yancy’s thigh as Yancy chases a bit of shine out of Rals’ belly button. “Love you.”

“Love you too, kiddo.” He tosses the wash cloth away, satisfied that they’re clean enough. 

Anxiety attacks?

If he’s having anxiety attacks, shouldn’t this be top of the fucking list for things that would set it off? What's more anxiety inducing than your little brother crawling into your bed with absolutely zero warning, and wheedling sex out of you?

Yeah, that anxiety thing has to be wrong, because Yancy feels... pretty good right now. Comfortable. Easy. Right, in a weird way.

Yancy gets back in besides Raleigh. Just lays there for a while, listening to his brother’s breathing smooth down into sleep.

It takes him a lot longer to get there himself.

And when he wakes up in the morning, Raleigh’s gone.

Yancy can’t be sure he didn’t just dream it.

Somehow, that doesn’t help anything.

He gets himself up. Takes a shower. Tries not to think about what it was like, watching his little brother fall apart under his hand, kiss him as he came.

Pretty? Hell. Raleigh is beautiful.

It's just not fair. So many sexy men in his space right now and he can't touch any of them.

Nobody’s out in the main living space when he blearily drags himself into the kitchen, though. Nobody’s here at all. Including - excluding? - Dad.

Which is nice, in a way. Gives Yancy plenty of time to make coffee. Ponder the question of whether he’s gone so numb he can’t feel anything any more; there’s no guilt or disappointment or surprise right now.

“Fuck,” he grumbles to himself.

Then his cell phone rings.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god.. narrative structure? Plotting? What's that? What's this, holy shit...

Despite the fact he’s up at five every morning to start baking, Yancy likes to sleep in. Used to make him so cranky, waking up earlier than ten or eleven. It used to drive Raleigh nuts, how he always had to be quiet, playing with his toys or wearing headphones for the X-Box so he wouldn’t wake his big brother up. And Christmas? Forget it. Mama eventually had to set a rule that nobody opened presents before noon, just to stop the fights.

Now, it seems like just another thing that Yancy has lost to this damn place.

But they’re going to fix that, both of them, together. Raleigh’s got no interest in making the restaurant industry a career - he’s not blind, he saw what it did to Mama and Dad’s relationship - but he likes chatting up the customers. He wouldn’t mind taking over front of house, at least in the evenings, and that’s what he told Chef Hansen (the older one) yesterday while they were painting.

And suggested this morning, the crew shown up laden with donuts and coffee from that place on the other side of campus, that they surprise Yancy with the finished space. 

“He won’t be up?” Herc had asked, eyebrow quirked.

“Naw, he sleeps late.”

Sleeps even later after sex. Not that Raleigh had admitted to that, despite the blush he knows was on his cheeks as he was talking to the chef.

Raleigh’s not sure what to think about that. What he and Yancy... did. What he made his big brother do. And yeah, he knows he made Yancy do it. Yancy’s always so careful with him and Jaz. More their dad than Dad’s been, especially Mama died, and it’s probably some huge betrayal of trust, asking for that from him. 

But Raleigh can’t bring himself to regret it. None of his awkward fumblings with girls can even start to compare to Yancy taking care of him with those big wonderful hands. Yancy does have a very nice body, and it was nice this morning to be able to look at it, really take his big brother in. Nice to wake up still tangled in his brother’s arms, face tucked into his brother’s chest, wrapped up in all his warmth, and...

He feels very off balance this morning. Giddy. He’d like nothing more than to run back upstairs and kiss Yancy awake and go for another round and then cuddle back in and just... enjoy it. Not really an option, though. The Hansens are here, and god only knows how Jazmine would take it, if she caught them together.

Jaz.

Raleigh does feel kind of bad about that.

Right now, she’s helping Sasha lay out the new tableware. One final touch. Their old stuff wasn’t bad, but that’s kind of the point. Chuck and Herc got in a bit of a fight this morning, when Sasha started unpacking it - _have you lost your goddamn mind, old man? You never serve food on goddamn colored plates, what is this shit even?_ \- but Herc’s point seemed fair. White plates might be standard for fine dining, but the intention here is make things feel modern but comfortable, delicious but casual, the kind of space where a student could spread out their math homework and enjoy a big bowl of chili at the same time. 

Plus, Pentecost said he’s authorized to spend so much per episode and he hates coming back under budget. 

It’s a small change - and Yancy probably isn’t going to be happy about the Fiestaware either - but it does bring everything together.

The walls are a warm white, the faint shadow of blue keeping it from looking too clinical while still making it bright. The old carpet’s been ripped out and the old pine floors refinished - something the construction crew did last night, nothing Raleigh was expecting but a perfect touch. Mama had added gauzy window treatments to the big front window, echoing the effect with draping around the walls. Gone now, the fresh new paint color highlights the original woodworking details, the exquisite plaster molding. Raleigh had forgotten how nice that molding looked. 

Herc’s suggested going to a different ordering system, letting students seat themselves, order and pay straight at the counter if they’d rather. The bar’s been slightly reconfigured to accommodate, with detail added to the front in the form of pounded copper ceiling tiles (a gift from Raleigh’s boss, attic stock from a hotel reno that had just been gathering dust in their storage room), cleaned up and framed out. Mama had adored the original wood bar, but never really used it for anything other than decoration; it’s full now, the faulty cappuccino machine replaced with a good-quality used model meant for a real coffee shop and two shelves loaded with glass jars of tea and coffee, the stuff that’s until now been hiding in some back cabinet. Liquor fills the rest of the space, that cheap, decent quality, mostly local stuff the students here love. There’s a blackboard on the wall for daily specials or announcements; the new menu sits down in an inset glass space in the counter in front of the register.

The big booth by the front window’s been removed, a comfortable aged leather sectional - easy to clean and hard to destroy - set up around a low, large table, just the right height for coffee or homework or board games resting now the original built-in bookcases that Raleigh and Aleksis had found behind the bulky booth frame. Mama had sourced a number of different tables, more concerned about finding the right size than matching the legs or tops, and without their tablecloths, it makes the whole space look pleasantly eclectic. They’ve reconfigured the largest two tables into more of a community bar, with more workspace and less awkwardness, if you come in by yourself. Raleigh’s planning on reupholstering the chairs, but that’s a project for another day. Right now, it works just fine.

Add some cool toned paintings Mako had charmed out of the art college, a scrolling 1800s style decal on the main window proclaiming their new name, and it almost makes it look like they know what they’re doing. 

Yancy can bitch about the plates all he wants. 

The place looks damn good. And for as different as it looks, all they really did was declutter and clean up. Really, the only stuff they added was the tile and the booze.

“So, what does my construction management major think of his brother’s new bistro?” Herc asks, coming up along Raleigh.

 _I think you should have slept with Yancy while you had the chance,_ and dammit, where the hell did that come from? It’s not like Yancy’s going to let him do that again... but Raleigh really, really wants to do that again. And the thought of Yancy going off and doing it with somebody else...

“You okay?”

Dammit, his cheeks are hot again, and Raleigh shakes his head, smiling. “I think the place look great.” 

“Your dad called you yet? Because I need to have a talk with him.”

There’s a growl in the words, and Raleigh shivers. “I, umm...”

But just then, skinny arms wrap around his waist at that, and there’s no way he’s discussing this in front of the owner of those. Instead, he lays a kiss on the top of his little sister’s head and gives Chef Hansen a look that he hopes says _shut up_. “Wouldn’t you agree, Jazzie?”

She punches him, but laughs. “Yeah, it looks real cool.”

“The kind of place you’d want to come hang out?” Herc asks.

“Yeah, I mean, totally!” 

“It’s cool,” Raleigh agrees. “I like the way we’ve used color here as accents, instead of the focus.”

“Indeed. The focus should be this beautiful space. Look at how much bigger it feels, all your mum’s bits and pieces gone.”

Jaz makes a little noise, and Raleigh hugs her tighter. _“This was hers for a long time, baby, but now it’s ours,”_ he murmurs to her in French. _”Maman would want Yancy to have his dream too.”_

 _”You think this is what Yancy dreams about?”_ Jaz asks in reply, hopeful but hesitant. 

_”Of course,”_ Raleigh tells her, but sees Chef Hansen watching him with barely feigned interest, and tries not to blush again. He knows what he’s telling his sister is a lie, and Chef Hansen probably knows it’s a lie too, but at this point, what else can they do?

Raleigh knows Yancy deserves better. Deserves to become a world-class chef in his own right. Deserves the chance to do that. But Mama hadn’t been concerned about giving him that, and Dad’s not concerned with them at all, and this is the best Raleigh can do. This is all Raleigh can help give him. He just hopes it’s good enough. Yancy needs something good again. 

It’s stupid, and Raleigh knows he can’t do that much, but he really does want to make his big brother happy.

“It’s almost noon, son,” Herc Hansen says gently. “Why don’t you go fetch that lazy lump of a brother of yours and get him down here? Show off this gorgeous new space?”

But when Raleigh goes upstairs, he finds Yancy pulling on his boots at the back staircase, the one that leads down to the garage. He hasn’t even done his hair, and Yancy _always_ does his hair. That annoyingly good look Captain America... thing. 

“What’s up?”

“Gotta go pick up Dad.”

“Where at?”

“Dad got his worthless ass picked up for possession,” Yancy growls and yanks at his laces. “That fucking no good junkie _asshole_...”

“Wait,” Raleigh says faintly. “Possession? Possession of what?”

“You’re gonna love this. Fucking heroin. Fucker’s evidently got track marks all over his arm, had half a gram in his pocket.”

The bottom falls out of the world. Raleigh grabs for his brother, light-headed, cold in his blood. And Yancy, of course, catches him.

“Hey,” his brother whispers in his ear, holding him. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

Raleigh closes his eyes, letting Yancy take his weight. “Don’t go bail him out.”

“Yeah, so apparently he already set that up himself.”

“Just leave him there.”

“Can’t do that. What if he disappears on us again?”

Raleigh looks up at his brother. “So what?”

Yancy lays a hand on Raleigh’s cheek; intimate, in a way they never are, and despite himself, Raleigh feels his heart leap. “I gotta pick him up.”

“We’ve got a surprise for you downstairs,” Raleigh says, and even to him, it sound like begging.

Yancy huffs out a small laugh and then, like he’s not even thinking about it, brushes his lips against Raleigh’s own. It’s not quite a kiss, but then, it’s not exactly _not_ , either. Raleigh blinks; Yancy lets him go. “I’ll see it when I get back, okay kid?”

But oh no, Dad’s bullshit aside, Raleigh is so not going to let Yancy get away with that bullshit. He grabs for his brother’s wrist, holding him in place before he can move away, and drags them back together again. He smashes his mouth against Yancy’s, all need and no finesse at all, everything he has in it. 

And amazingly, Yancy responds, pushing him back against the wall with a single hand on his hip, kissing him back. Lips open, tongue flicking out, diving in. Every nerve in Raleigh’s body lights up at once, blood rushing south, leaving him light-headed for a whole different reason. It’s erotic and nerve-wracking - because what if somebody came up and _saw_ them right now? - and so, so good, Raleigh can’t do anything but throw his arms around his big brother’s neck and hold on.

Yancy’s mouth leaves his own too soon though, teeth teasing across Raleigh’s jaw to finally nip at his ear. “We’re not doing this, you understand me?” he murmurs, even as he kisses Raleigh’s neck again. “Can’t do that to you.”

Raleigh whines, and fists his hands in Yancy’s jacket. “But Yance...”

“Shh.” And Yancy’s pulling away, taking all his lovely warmth with him, eyes uncertain as they rake over Raleigh, how he’s fallen back against the wall. “We’re brothers. Wouldn’t be right.”

“I don’t care about right,” Raleigh says, feeling dejected. “I care about you, bro.”

Yancy inhales. Leans back in, very carefully, and plants one more soft kiss on Raleigh’s lips. “Not a chance, kiddo.”

This time, Raleigh lets Yancy pull away. “Love you,” he says. And he’s said the words a thousand times, but right now, it feels different. He feels different.

“Love you too,” Yancy replies, smiling a little.

But then the smile vanishes. Just like that. And Raleigh looks over his shoulder.

Chef Hansen - Chuck, not Herc - is standing there. Expression completely inscrutable. 

“Dad sent me up, see what was takin’ you so long,” he says, standing there in his sheepskin bomber jacket, thrown over his kitchen whites, like he's got every right to barge in unannouced. “So, what’s goin’ on?”

“Our dad got arrested. Right, Yance?” say Raleigh, and looks over at Yancy. Yancy, who just rolls his eyes, grabs his jacket off the hook by the door, and vanishes.

Dammit.

“I meant more ‘bout you two pashin’ up here like that, all pretty.” He cocks his head. “That a new thing, I take it?”

Raleigh sighs, casting one last longing glance at the back door. He can hear their car starting up. “I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s a thing.”

“But you want it to be,” Chuck says with all the confidence in the world. Raleigh glares at him. Not that it stops Chuck. At all. “Not like I blame you. He’s hot as fuck.”

“Hey!” Raleigh snaps. He feels itchy. Like his skin’s too tight. What the fuck is going on this week?

But Chuck just grins. “Let me guess, he doesn’t want to force anything on you, right?”

“Maybe. Why?”

“That’s how my old man was about,” Chuck says with a grin, and winks at Raleigh, starting back down the main stairs. “C’mon Becket, let’s go give Dad the bad news.”

Chuck and Herc? Really?

Huh.

"So, how'd youd deal with it?" Raleigh asks, chasing after Chuck down the stairs.

"Kept crawlin' into his bed naked," Chuck replies with a laugh. 

"And that worked?"

"Oh yeah, like a charm. Wore him right down." Chuck pauses at the door, a pensive look on his face. "Callin' him Daddy while I was begging for his cock helped quite a bit, but I don't know if your brother's into that sort of thing."

And actually, that, right there, is the moment Raleigh starts questioning his sexuality, because the thought of Herc and Chuck Hansen in bed together, Chuck calling Herc _Daddy_ , is just ridiculously hot.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuses anymore....dignity? What's that?

_With Chuck in the kitchen, providing much-needed additional guidance to Aleksis, and Jazmine expediting orders with a focus I’ve rarely seen in people twice her age, Yancy was able to push the new menu out with impressive efficiency. Everyone seems satisfied with their food, and most everyone I talked to agreed that this was going to be the new hot spot on campus._

The montage of Chuck pushing out dishes minimizes Yancy’s role somewhat, but then, Yancy knows he was never really the focus of any of this.

“That was a bloody good job tonight. Kitchen and front of house were working in synch, quality was consistent across the board, and most importantly, we were doing it together. We have to do it together. Despite the set-backs we’ve had this week, Yancy, you and your family have pulled this out. Excellent first service with a new menu,” Herc is saying, and turns to Chuck. “Sprog, anything to add?”

“Do you have to call me that on camera, you ancient bastard?”

“Feedback time, Chuck.”

They’re all clustered around in the kitchen, stoves off and work surfaces already wiped down. Raleigh looks exhausted but proud; Yancy just looks exhausted. He can’t believe he looks that tired.

“Oi, right, so I like what I saw at the stove tonight,” Chuck says in his usual careless way. “The key thing, I think, is making sure you don’t backslide into old habits. Maintain standards. Don’t let that shit from the Gypsy Cafe sneak back on the menu. No tinned fish, you understand me?”

“Yeah, actually, we got you a present there,” TV Yancy says and bends down, out of frame. He stands back up with a ribbon-wrapped three-can stack of unlabeled gold cans, a big bow on top. “You liked the salmon cakes so much tonight, I figured I give you some of that secret ingredient to take home with you.”

Herc’s uncontrollable laughter is cut out, as is most of Chuck’s sputtering profanity-laced rant that followed. Instead, the show cuts to about five minutes in the future, where Herc tells Yancy he has a few more things to discuss with him, and the two of them head off into small downstairs office.

“I’ve had a talk with your dad today. Off camera, like he asked.”

And that’s pure television bullshit - Dad was so strung out after Yancy picked him from the precinct, Yancy was able to wheedle the Well Fargo passwords out of him before locking him in his room. Better than saying that on national TV though. Especially when the drug charges were still pending.

Drug charges, and bail jumping now.

The accounting situation had been even worse than any of them had expected, and they weren’t expecting very much.

The whole thing is such a clusterfuck.

Yancy watches himself rub a tired hand over his forehead. “What’d he have to say?”

“It’s pretty clear that with his issues, he’s in no shape to be involved in the business. He needs to rest up, get help for his alcohol issues, and not have this kind of stress on him. He is simply not well enough to help you.”

Nodding, the Yancy on screen looks terribly resigned. “I know, I know.”

“But you’ve got a chance here. You’re a bloody good cook, you’re ideally positioned a stone’s throw from hordes of hungry customers, and you’ve got a brand now that will appeal to students and faculty alike.” 

Here, Yancy had said, “you think they’ll forgive me for the name?”

And Herc had said, “they can go fuck themselves if they’re going to miss out on this kind of food because the owner’s half Roma.”

Instead, the show cuts ahead to where Yancy’s saying, “it’s not going to be easy with my dad.”

“Believe me, I know. I dealt with the same kind of addiction issues with my brother, and let me tell you, I understand. He makes our lives a living hell on a daily basis. It is so, so hard.” And Herc touches Yancy’s shoulder. It looks fatherly, professional, but only if you don’t know what else had been going on that week. “There is help available for him, though” - yeah, court-mandated drug rehab, probably - “and you’re strong enough for this. If you want this to work, it will.”

TV Yancy nods.

The scene cuts away from where Herc kicked Tendo out of the office, and out to the restaurant again, about ten minutes later (after he’d kissed Yancy breathless, held him, kissed him again, and whispered in his ear, “I expect you to call me if anything changes here. You’ve a standing offer with me; I want you on my team.”) Yancy and Raleigh are standing there in frame together, Jaz between them, trying to stifle her yawns with the back of her hand.

“I couldn’t be happier about what’s happened here this week,” Yancy says. Raleigh bumps his big brother’s shoulder, and Yancy roughs up his little brother’s hair, over the top of his sister’s side. “We’ve got a great new identity, I feel re-energized and ready to take this on...”

“And you aren’t going to be doing it by yourself anymore. I’m here for you, Jaz is here, we’re going to make this work,” Raleigh says firmly. 

On screen, Yancy watches himself smile ruefully, sees the tears in his eyes. “I just can’t thank Chef Hansen and Hansen enough for what they’ve done for us. I just...I’m so happy. But I think I need to get some sleep too.”

It ends with a nice montage of B-roll footage; people eating, paying their bills, Yancy and Raleigh washing up, and finally, the lights going out behind the big window, the new _Becket Brothers Bistro_ scrollwork on the glass going dark.

And it definitely doesn’t show what happened about half an hour after _that_.

Yancy feels his cheeks flaming, even now.

Raleigh’s the one who turns the TV off, though. Shuts the episode off, before the credit can even roll, before Herc even delivers his typical analysis of their chances. And the kid leans forward, frowning at the blank screen like there are any answers to be found there.

Yancy knows how he feels.

But there aren’t any answers. 

There just aren’t.

Not for the big questions.

“They’ve already called, you know. Want to film one of those follow-up episodes in a couple of weeks.”

Yancy stands up, offering his brother a hand. “There’s not going to be anything here to film in a couple of weeks.”

“Yeah, I told them that,” Raleigh says quietly, and falls right into Yancy’s side, arm hooking around his waist like they’ve been doing this their entire lives. He noses at Yancy’s neck as Yancy pulls them both down the hallway, back to his room. “You know Herc does want to help.”

“I get that, I just...”

“Yeah. I know.” Raleigh looks at him. “But I’m still here.”

Yancy sighs, and squeezes him. Last thing he ever wants Raleigh to think is that he’s an afterthough.

Jaz isn’t home tonight. Friday; of course she wanted to go over to her best friend’s house for a sleep-over. She’s been spending a lot of time over there, across town, since the episode filmed, and Yancy can’t really blame her. Between his hours and Raleigh’s studies, neither of them have the kind of time to give her that she needs. Her friend’s got one of those cheery stay at home moms who’s always got cookies in the big ceramic bear on the kitchen counter, a dad with regular work hours, who’s always home for dinner, dogs big and fluffy as anything else around, a full cable package and no competition for the last quart of milk. 

It’s the sort of family they used to have. Sort of. The family Jaz didn’t get enough time with, and desperately misses now, even as she pretends that she doesn’t care.

This shit’s just not fair.

Yancy’s almost ashamed of himself for being happy about her absence. 

But he can only let himself - let them - do this when she’s out of the house.

Raleigh wraps a leg around the back of Yancy’s knee as Yancy lays him down, pulling Yancy up on top of him. The kid likes it like this, likes his big brother’s weight spread out over him, likes being able to wriggle and gasp but not escape. Fuck, he’s perfect.

“Ooh, your hands are chilly,” he whines, a bit breathless, as Yancy straddles his hips, tugging the kid’s shirt off. 

“Then you better warm me up, huh?” Yancy teases.

Raleigh smiles at him - that secret little smile Yancy just might be falling in love with - and reaches for him. “Get down here and I will.”

+++++

After filming the last interview segment with Mako, Pentecost had shaken everyone’s hand, thanked them again for their hard work and dedication, and then they were all gone. Everyone just gone, as if they’d never been.

Yancy’s team had drifted out; Aleksis and Sasha back home, Raleigh upstairs with Jaz, ostensibly to make sure she brushed her teeth, but really, he was more worried about Dad. Dad, locked in his room upstairs.

It wasn’t a solution. What Dad really needed, Yancy thought at the time, was rehab, or to dry out in a jail cell, but the cops hadn’t found any heroin actually in his system at the time of arrest and, of course, the family insurance was gone. He couldn’t commit his dad against his will and the cops couldn’t hold him once he posted bail. Dad was horribly hung-over, but it wasn’t like the cops didn’t deal with that crap all the time. The desk sergeant had given Yancy some phone numbers of local non-profit resources, at least, but it wasn’t anything Yancy had been able to deal with on relaunch day. 

The fucker had said some terribly abusive things on the way back from the precinct too - called Yancy a worthless fag, and that was as a warm-up - and the last thing in the world either Yancy or Raleigh wanted was their baby sister seeing their dad in this kind of state. Because she would have snuck in there if nobody was watching her. Rebellious teenage phase aside, Jaz was still her daddy’s little girl and had no idea what was going on, how bad it really was.

Yancy hadn’t wanted to deal with it. Didn’t know how to deal with it.

So he’d stayed downstairs, cleaning up. Fussing. Just for a few minutes, anything to take his mind off the storm raging inside of it, but even that had been a mistake - or maybe not. Yancy’s still not really sure how to feel about what he found waiting for him back in the kitchen.

Herc and Chuck. Looking positively edible - Chuck with that signature bomber jacket thrown on over his chef whites, Herc in another of those damn ancient henleys with a worn-out old vest, the name of his original Sydney steakhouse rubbed half-off the left breast. Talking quietly. Stopping when he came in.

“Thought you gents left already,” he’d said wearily, and thrown his apron aside on the pass. Like he need any more shit that night. Another camera shoved in his face. “Forget something?”

“You might say that,” Chuck replied calmly, crossing his arms and giving Yancy a look. 

A very pointed look.

He sighed. “What do you want?”

“The question is, what would be your pleasure, Chef Becket?” Herc said, Chuck adding, “not to sound all kink club about it, but we’re open to negotiation on that front.”

“I’m just a cook, Herc.”

“You’re not _just_ anything, boy.”

And dammit, if that didn’t go straight to Yancy’s cock. 

So yeah, he might have let himself reach out. Brush the front of Herc’ old khaki vest with reverent fingers. Lucky Seven wasn’t open anymore - victim of Scott’s epic public meltdown - but Yancy had heard magical things. “Always wanted to try a nice big slab of Australian beef.”

“Fuck me, you’re as bad as the sprog,” Herc had growled, and grabbed him, locking their mouths together in a way that could only be described as savage.

Yancy had let Herc take the lead, pushing him back into the dining room, the older man stripping the younger’s shirt off of him as they went. There wasn’t much to do but brace himself with open palms against Herc’s broad chest, gasping and shivering in the chill dark air, stubble burn and teeth teasing viciously at the tender skin of his neck. 

He didn’t even realize where they were, or how far they’d come, until Herc shoved him back and he landed, half-stunned, on the nice new leather sectional. Chuck, somehow, sitting there beside him. In front of the big open window.

He shivered. Hard already.

“So, mate,” the infuriating brat had purred, and ran a hand through his hair. Like he was _petting_ Yancy or something, and fuck that. Fuck _all_ of that. He wasn’t their damn sex toy. This was his restaurant, not theirs.

So Yancy didn’t give him a second’s more time to run his mouth. He’d grabbed Chuck, started kissing him, aggressive as he possibly could, shoving the kid flat on his back, driving his knee between his legs. He purposely dropped weight against the Aussie’s burgeoning erection, smiling a little as Chuck bucked up into it, before swinging all the way over and up, straddling that nice broad chest. “Why don’t you put that mouth to better use?”

“Yeah?”

“Gets enough practice, don’t it?”

Chuck winked at him and slithered down between the bracket of Yancy’s thighs, leveraging his solid body with a firm hold on Yancy’s belt.

Another hand found his hair - bigger, more calloused, but somehow less threatening. “One thing I should probably mention,” Herc said casually, like it was every day he watched his son unwrapping another man’s dick.

“What’s that?” he 

“Nobody fucks my baby boy’s arse” - and it was then that Chuck licked a hot stripe up the front of Yancy’s straining briefs - “but me.”

Shivering again, Yancy pressed back into Herc’s hand, arched into Chuck’s teasing tongue. “He got a problem with you fucking me?”

“Not if he knows what’s good for him.”

“Awesome,” he’d sighed, and taken a full handful of Chuck’s ginger hair, bracing himself on the back of the couch with the other, as the kid started easing the waistband of his underwear down.

“Such a delectable arse,” Herc murmured. The weight balance on the couch shifted, the sound of a zipper that wasn’t Yancy’s own being undone. One of those big, kitchen-rough hands slid into the space that Chuck had made, between fabric and skin, to push Yancy’s cotton cook’s pants all the way down. His palms kneaded at the flesh there as Chuck’s mouth latched on to the head of Yancy’s cock; Yancy groaned, knees going weak. “Would have made it up to Alaska sooner, had I known the local boys had such lovely arses.” His teeth snapped at Yancy’s ear. “Such eager, slutty little arses.”

“It’s just us gypsy boys,” Yancy teased, and moaned again. He’d never referred to himself like that during sex; wasn’t sure why he was doing it then. Worked, somehow. Felt intimate. Herc knew all his secrets now anyway. One of Chuck’s hands had joined his father’s, tugging his cheek back, opening his cleft to all the possibilities. Fuck, it had been a long time since anybody had played with his ass. Greedy little bottom that Casey had been, he’d never done it, and before that... “We make the best lovers.”

“And when’s the last time my hungry gypsy boy’s had himself some dick?” Herc purred, continuing to tease, thumb pressing just over the fluttering ring of muscle. “Man can’t live on tinned fish alone.”

Yancy almost lost it from laughing at that, but it seemed to piss Chuck off enough to go straight from teasing to fucking _deep-throating_ him, swallowing him down easy as breathing. He would have probably fallen on the kid out of shock - and pleasure, because nobody had ever done that for him before, and _fuck_ , it was good - if Herc hadn’t been there to grab him. One big, tattooed arm wrapping around his waist, a packet of slick being offered over his shoulder.

“ _Open that up, boy, and I will open you up,_ ” Herc whispered in his ear. In throaty French, making him sound even sexier than he normally did. “ _Would not do for my pretty little gypsy boy to go hungry.”_

He got it in his teeth, in his haste to get the damn thing open.

Chuck had laughed at him, the reverberations sending shockwaves through his blood-hard erection and up into his belly.

Herc had fucked him hard and deep and slow that night, as thoroughly as anybody ever has, opening Yancy only partially with his big blunt fingers and driving in when Yancy was still pleasantly tight. The initial sting faded to roaring pleasure, the dual stimulation of being taken from behind and in front - because Yancy was in no illusions about anybody being in control here but Herc - something he’d never experienced before. It seemed to go on forever but ended too quickly, his orgasm sneaking up on him, losing himself to Chuck’s very talented mouth before he even knew what was happening. Lost in the haze, he barely noticed Herc laying him down, or jacking Chuck off, but he was aware enough by the time Chuck pulled the condom off to see Herc come all over his son’s chest. Laying on his side against the smooth cushions, he watched with lidded eyes as Chuck wound a hand around his daddy’s neck, pulled himself halfway up, and kissed him breathless.

“He tastes good,” Herc murmured, stroking Chuck’s cheek.

“Better straight from the source,” Chuck replied smugly. “Told you he was a good idea.”

It killed a bit of the glow for Yancy. It did. Because who was he, in the end, but another poor bastard with a failing restaurant at the ass-end of the world? These two were rock stars, at the top of their game - everyone’s game, at least, as far as the restaurant world was concerned. It’d been good while it lasted, real good, the best, but that was just it, wasn’t it? 

While it lasted.

And tonight was the last night of filming.

“Well, that was fun,” he’d said lamely, and stood, more than a little sore. “You guys let yourselves in so... lock up on your way out?”

Herc looked at him, Chuck half-cuddled in his lap. “We’re not flying out until the morning. Plenty o’ time for another round.”

“Naw,” Yancy drawled, and flicked Chuck’s ear. The kid squawked, just like Raleigh always did. “You guys wore me the fuck out.”

Raleigh was in his bed when Yancy dragged back upstairs, sore and exhausted and sticky; Herc had broken out a second packet of lube before they’d finished. The chef’s cock had been more than a handful. He felt a wave of guilt, seeing his little brother curled up in the fetal position there. Probably waiting for him, probably needing him, a bulwark against this fucked up, dissolving thing that’s become their family.

Yancy hadn’t had the heart to kick him out. And indeed, the second he wrapped himself around his little brother, a soft kiss and murmured, “I’m here kiddo,” Raleigh turned into him and started crying.

He hasn’t seen his brother cry since then. 

Not even when Dad didn’t come home a few weeks ago. When Dad left to go to his initial hearing, but never showed up at the court house. He’d put his suit on, taken the car, and just... vanished.

Without giving Yancy access to the family bank accounts, much less signing the paperwork to get Yancy’s name on the mortgage.

The final notice came a couple days ago. Foreclosure. And he’s called, talked to everybody he can talk to, but even if he was a signatory on it, there’s nothing he can do without a significant influx of cash, and that, that he just doesn’t have. Most of Dad’s accounts are either closed or drained; fucker had been going on binges, even before he left. God only knows what he’s doing with it now.

Truth be told, Yancy doesn’t care. He hates himself for it, but he doesn’t. He’s so tired of this place, of everything it represents. Business has picked up, he feels less like a failure, but the very fact he’s here is basically a failure anyway. If it was just him, he’d be relieved. Call up Herc and ask about that job.

He’s got Jaz to think of, though. Jaz and Raleigh, even though Raleigh keeps stubbornly insisting that he’ll just get a dorm room and re-apply his financial aid situation (and that, only after Yancy already told him not to even _think_ about dropping out of school).

There aren’t many job openings for cooks here in Anchorage.

And here he was. Stupid enough to think everything was going to work out.

+++++

Raleigh can see the gears turning in Yancy’s head, and that’s the last thing he wants right now. Last thing either of them need. His brother needs to get his mind off all this shit that’s going on - because it’s going to work out, will work out, if Yancy will just get over his damn self and call Chef Hansen back - and Raleigh just _needs_.

He’s got no idea why, but he does.

The morning after the filming, he’d woken up in his brother’s sleeping arms, the freckled expanse a warm, comforting weight on his body. Raleigh had laid there, more content than he had been since... since ever, maybe. Laid there, and looked Yancy over.

He’d been bruised up, dark spots along his hips that were slightly bigger than Raleigh’s own finger pads, little nips along his neck and back, reddened spots that looked almost like rug burn. And he’d been kind of... sticky, in some places. Well, one place. Where his pants had pulled down as they slept.

Raleigh hadn’t been able to resist touching. Curious. Because if he had to guess, Yancy had gotten, umm, fucked. Was fucked the right word? Was there a better word? Did it indicate... something? He really wasn’t sure how this whole guy-on-guy thing worked, but he was willing to bet all those marks had been left by Chef Hansen.

It was kind of hot. And more than a little infuriating.

If somebody was going to be touching Yancy, it should have been him. His little brother. The one person who loved him more than anything, anything else in the world.

So maybe he’d... touched. He’d never used lube before and it was kind of funky, but kind of nice too. And he’d touched some more. And then rolled over and pushed up on his elbow so he could get a better look at his brother’s slicked-up, puffy hole.

Raleigh really wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do - well, not touch, because Yancy had said so - but what he would do if he wasn’t, like, Yancy’s brother or whatever. What was the problem; it’s not like Yancy could get him pregnant, and wasn’t that really the whole thing about not fucking a sibling? he reasoned. He bit his lip and edged a little closer, dragging his index finger through the clear mess, stopping right at the top of his hole, pushing a little, biting his lip at the thought of maybe just...

“Mm,” Yancy grunted then, and turned his head, cracking an eye. “Rals? What are you doing?”

“You’re, umm...messy?”

“Yeah, Herc fucked me last night.” He said it flat, unemotional, but all Raleigh heard was a challenge. “Why?”

“What’s it like?” Raleigh asked quietly.

“Really goddamn good.”

“I thought you said Casey was a bottom.”

“Yeah, Casey was.”

“So gay guys don’t, like, do one or the other?”

Yancy scanned him with bleary eyes, still laying on his belly, legs sprawled out on the bed, his cock underneath his balls against the quilt. “This would be less weird if you’d stop fingering me.”

Oh yeah. His hand was still moving. But Yancy was just so soft and nice there, Raleigh’s heart leaping a bit at the mere thought of... and he took a chance. Like Chuck said, right? It was about wearing Yancy down, and frankly, Yancy didn’t seem like he was all that objected to the idea anyway. “Is it like it is with girls?” he asked, deliberately not stopping his slow swipes across the top of Yancy’s hole.

“Considering that I’ve never seen a vagina outside of Sex Ed class...”

“So, like, this?” Raleigh asked, and pushed a finger inside gently, sweeping up and pulling back out.

The sound his brother made... 

Well. 

Raleigh had never heard Yancy make a sound like that.

It ended the argument, but not the conversation, and even at that, it still took Yancy a few minutes to grudgingly tell Raleigh “if you’re not going to stop then let me tell you where my damn prostate is,” and that was the first time Raleigh got to make his big brother come. 

Which was pretty amazing, sure. But they’re both liking it better with Yancy in the more toppy, dominant position - he says he normally prefers that anyway, and what can Raleigh say? He knows he’s got nothing on Herc Hansen. He’s perfectly happy being taken care of.

Yancy’s justifications have changed over the past few months for why he was touching Raleigh this time, but they’re all adorably thin. Raleigh knows his big brother loves him, adores him, and it’s intoxicating to know that his big brother finds him irresistibly sexy. Plus, it seems like the only time Yancy ever relaxes these days is when they’re in bed together.

So this morning, he does what he’s starting to wish he could do every morning.

Rolls up on top of Yancy and kisses him as deeply and sweetly as he knows how. Grinding his groin down. It feels nice. Yancy’s got more chest hair than he does (which is to say, Yancy’s got a bit of chest hair while Raleigh’s still looks like peach fuzz) and his skin is so smooth and warm and musky-lovely...

“Raleigh,” Yancy protests - just like he always does. “Kiddo...”

And Raleigh puts on his best pout. “You promised you’d fuck me,” he says, raking blunt nails across his brother’s chest, drawing shivers. He likes it sweet himself, he really does, and Yancy’s never anything less with him, but Raleigh’s learning that Yancy needs just a touch of roughness. Very light touch of it. Raleigh’s not sure he’s ready to bruise Yancy up like Herc did that night, even if he can understand the appeal; he’d been insanely jealous, watching those marks vanish form his big brother’s skin. “You’ve been fingering me and stretching me and... and I wore the plug yesterday, just like you...

“Sweetheart, I need to go open. And you’ve got work today, don’t you?”

Raleigh looks over at the clock. “It’s my day off,” he says, rolling off. It’s only partly a lie; he could have gone in for demo today, but he likes taking at least one day a weekend to work with Yancy. “I’ll help out.”

In gratitude, Yancy kisses him. Even now, he still blushes a bit when he does it. “Shower?”

Raleigh smiles. It’s a little hesitant, but nearly as much as it used to be. “Love to.”

And so, it should have been an easy, normal day. Open at seven, have their growing weekend crowd in for breakfast, see the laptops start to come out around the same time as Sasha and Aleksis drag in, and go from there.

Except today, around nine, somebody throws a monkey wrench into that nice neat rhythm.

Two somebodies, actually. 

“To be fair, we didn’t say we weren’t already in town, mate,” Chuck tells Raleigh, when he comes over to take their order in a (failed) attempt to play it cool.

Herc hands Raleigh their menus. “We’ll both do the chicken and waffles. I hear that’s popular with the college crowd.”

“Right,” Raleigh says faintly, and Mako just smiles at him and tells him to bring over an entire carafe of drip coffee.


	10. Chapter 10

They aren’t so rich that they can afford their own private jet. But goddamn if that JetSuite membership isn’t worth every penny. 

Herc’s pretty sure that a world-famous chef fucking his son on the cabin floor isn’t the worst thing that’s happened on one of these. 

Damn kid gets so horny when they fly.

Or when they’re in any enclosed space alone together, actually. 

But sex is just about the only time Chuck switches off, gets out of superhero chef mode and lets himself be the slightly awkward, self-conscious twenty-one year old boy that he really is, so Herc doesn’t mind all that much. Doesn’t mind in the slightest.

Plus, those three orgasms he wrung out of his sprog on the flight from LA has made him pliant enough so he doesn’t immediately jump Yancy’s shit about the tinned fish from relaunch night.

These reunion episodes are pretty standard. Share a meal with the business owners, chat a bit, go over all the shit that was wrong before and make sure it’s stayed fixed, let Mako get all the shots she wants. Five minutes of airtime, tops. 

Today’s a bit different.

Sure, Herc lets Yancy cook them lunch - in this case, some kind of braised chicken with dijon that’s simply heavenly - and Mako gets plenty of nice shots of them eating in the kitchen, laughing about things that happened during filming. But Herc can tell the boys aren’t into it. Raleigh keeps giving Yancy these sideways glances and Yancy? Well, he’s even more shut down than he normally is. Short answers. Avoiding Herc’s eyes. Hell, he’s talking more to Aleksis than he is to Herc or Chuck.

It’s... irritating.

Especially after the conversation Herc had with Raleigh yesterday. Richard taking off on some kind of cross-country drug-fueled roadtrip with the family’s only car. Finances a total shambles. This mortgage thing.

So of course he asks.

“I’ve heard that the bank’s foreclosing. Have you been able to...”

But before he can finish his sentence, Yancy just tosses the pan he’s minding across the stove, sauce splattering everywhere, and storms out.

“Huh,” Chuck says. “What’s up his ass, Raleigh?”

“I’ve got no idea,” the younger Becket brother grumbles, and heads off in the same direction.

Herc looks over at Aleksis, who just flips his towel over his huge shoulder, face impassive. “He is upset. About Richard.”

“Well fuck me," Chuck snaps. "I’m pissed at the man too.”

“No, he is pissed at self, because of Richard.”

Makes sense. 

Still.

Chuck can mind the shop for a few minutes. 

“Mako, can I have that packet?”

Her eyes go flinty. “You promised me...”

“Yeah yeah, I know, I’ll apologize to the network for you. Be a doll and pass it over, eh?”

Flipping her messenger bag open, Mako hands him the manila envelop but doesn’t quite let him pull it from her hand. “I am not your doll, Hansen,” she says in that infinitely pleasant way of hers. The one that means she’s considering disembowelment. And fuck, if she isn’t looking more like her adopted father more by the day.

He just smiles back. 

With a sigh, she lets him take it. 

Herc finds the boys upstairs. The interior door to their loft isn’t quite latched, but he does shut it carefully behind him as he slips in.

He can hear them talking.

“It’s not like he’s offering me a job...”

“He already fucking offered you a job and you know it!”

“You’ve got college to finish up...”

“And my damn credits will transfer...”

“And Jaz is not going to like us yanking her out of high school...”

“But she’d be with us. C’mon bro.”

“She’s fifteen. I’m not even sure I can take her out of the state. Dad’s not dead or...”

“Oh fuck Dad,” Raleigh snaps. “Fuck him. What’s he going to do, take you to court?”

“Think about this, kid, just think about it. Where’s he got restaurants? What’s the cost of living there? New York City? LA? Are you kidding me? On what a line cook makes? There’s no way that supports all three of us, not to mention the cost of moving, the high potential for further legal action against us with this shit with Dad...”

“It would be a sous chef position, actually,” Herc says from the stairs, making both boys jump. “Junior sous chef, obviously. Need to get you used to working on a brigade before moving you up to the pass, but I’ve no doubt you’ll learn the ropes quickly enough.”

Yancy looks like he’s been punched. “Herc...”

“I always have opportunities at all our places for young talent, but the current position I’d like to offer is in Las Vegas,” Herc continues, completely ignoring the boy’s protests. Way he sees it, Yancy doesn’t need a chance to offer up more fucking excuses about why he should stay up here in Alaska, wasting his talent. Raleigh, on the phone, had tentatively asked if _you know anybody who’s hiring here in Anchorage_ , and fuck if Herc’s going to let another chef take what’s his. “I reckon you wouldn’t mind a position at the Uluru Steak at Caesar’s Palace. Impress there and we’ll talk about getting you moved up to full sous chef at our place at the Wynn. The position would come with a full benefits package, of course, including a relocation stipend and assistance with finding a new place to live.” He brandishes the packet; never hurts to be prepared. “It’s all in here. Only thing that’s missing is your signature.”

Raleigh and Yancy exchange a glance, but it’s Raleigh who speaks up as Yancy mutely takes the envelop and starts leafing through its contents.

“You don’t have a place at the Wynn.”

“We will, in about a year. The Marquesas. Sort of a French-Pacific fine dining establishment. Sprog’s project, mostly.” Herc shrugs, adding, eyes firmly on Yancy, “it’s him you’ll have to prove yourself to, Yance. He’ll be up your arse about it.”

Raleigh snorts; Yancy punches him lightly in the shoulder, obviously distracted by what he’s reading.

If anything, it makes Raleigh just edge closer. Which makes Yancy shove at him, and Raleigh flops flat in his lap, and, somehow, Yancy’s hand finds his hair.

Herc watches him for a moment. Chuck had said something about the Beckets pashing, Raleigh asking some embarrassed questions about seducing his older brother. Looks like they’ve worked it out. Good for them. Even if Raleigh right now does uncomfortably resemble a puppy trying to get its mother’s attention.

So maybe he wonders what the two of them would look like kissing. Naked. In his bed.

He’s only human, after all. The Beckets really are quite the sight. And there’s something about Chuck’s general horniness that rubs off on him. 

“Raleigh, you really think your credits will transfer?” Yancy asks softly, petting his little brother’s overgrown blond locks, eyes on the relocation company information sheet now. 

“To Nevada? Hell yeah.”

“Jaz...”

“... will deal.”

“Is that a yes?” Herc interjects.

Yancy looks up at him, blinks a little, like he forgot there was anyone else here. “Did we ruin the reunion episode? Doing all this up here?”

“Naw, Mako’s a whiz at editing around shit.”

“Really?”

“She can wrest a story out of damn near everything,” Herc says seriously, and sits forward. “But are you coming?”

“Herc, I want my family the fuck out of this place. I do. But I have to talk to my sister.” He licks his lower lip, some gesture that’s probably the result of nervousness but makes Herc want to just _eat_ him. “She’s at a friend’s house right now, so can I...”

“Our flight out isn’t until tomorrow. Legally, you have until,” and Herc reaches over, takes the offer packet away, fingers sliding across the back of Yancy’s palm as he does so, finding the formal employment letter easily, “here, the date on this sheet. Seventy-two hours from extension of formal offer, or whatever the fucking legalese is for our conversation right here.”

“I won’t need three days.”

“Good.” He stands again, shakes both their hands, smiling a little at the look of befuddlement on Raleigh’s face. “I’ll leave you two to it. Need to talk to some of your guests, if that’s okay. For the cameras.”

“Yeah,” Yancy says faintly. “For the cameras.”

Ah. The boy’s probably just caught sight of the salary at the bottom of that offer letter, and he smirks to himself as he sets off back down the stairs. Sure, $55K with a year-end bonus worth up to 30% of base salary, plus benefits, is perhaps a bit excessive, but Yancy’s got a family. And a huge heaping of goddamn honest raw talent. Can’t put a price on something like that. Besides, that offer was the sprog’s idea anyway. _With their mum dying and dad pulling some Scott bullshit and all._

There’s also a travel itinerary in that packet for Yancy to come out, meet the team, see what he’s getting himself into. 

Chuck wants to give Yancy the tour of Caesar’s Palace himself.

Herc’s gonna enjoy that.

And thinking about it, he might just have to extend that invitation to Raleigh as well. Wouldn’t do, leaving him out of things, now would it?

+++++

Jaz throws a fit when they call her, when she comes home that afternoon, when they tell her. A fucking _epic_ fit. One for the record books. Enough to permanently put Yancy off the idea of adopting someday. It starts with insta-tears, the ones he _knows_ are fake and ends with real tears, with her storming out the loft, screaming at him about how it’s his fault Dad left them because _he probably didn’t want to watch you and Raleigh fuck!_

Yancy’s too shell-shocked to even go after her.

She sits out on the curb for a while, phone in hand and shoulders shaking. The tears got real at some point, and he hates himself for how much that pisses him off. Raleigh goes out to try and talk to her, but she screams at him too. He stays out there though, until a car Yancy recognizes pulls up and opens its door to her.

“Let me guess, that friend of hers?”

“Yeah,” Raleigh says and burrows into Yancy’s arms. 

“She hates us, doesn’t she?”

“I don’t think so. She said... she apologized, thought we’d been doing it for a while, actually, and was all proud of herself for keeping a secret.”

That's just so fucked up, Yancy's not even sure where to start with it. He's fucked up for touching Raleigh in the first place. Raleigh's fucked up for wanting it. This whole thing is just fucked up. “Fuck.”

“She just misses Dad,” Raleigh murmurs, almost too quiet to hear. “Hell, I miss Dad.”

Yancy wishes he could bring himself to say _yeah me too_. But he can’t. He can’t. He should be able to say it, like he should be able to say that losing the restaurant bothers him. Instead, he just stares at the ceiling and runs his fingers through Raleigh’s hair and wonders when the feel of it became this comforting. 

In a little while - an hour or two, or possibly tomorrow morning - Jaz will come back, sheepish and cranky and hungry. She’ll tearfully ask if they hate her, Yancy will say more than he should about what he and Raleigh have been up to, she’ll scrunch up her nose. Raleigh will ask for pancakes to break it up. And because he’ll be starving. Jaz will nod and Yancy will get it done. Damn kids are always hungry.

Fifty-five a year doesn’t go far, not with three people, but they’ll manage. Raleigh will work too much and Yancy will bicker with him over it and Jaz will start whining about wanting to work at a casino or something and maybe they’ll have enough to start a little bit of a college fund for her, buy her a ticket for next summer to come visit her friends. They’ll learn to like the heat and the desert mountains, the annoyance of the Strip looming large over their quiet little lives. Jaz will make new friends at school and Raleigh will finish up his degree and Yancy will work far too many hours. They’ll get a car, some sand beater that wouldn’t last a week in Alaska’s winters, and drive it to places they probably shouldn’t, and sit in the back yard of some small condo, eating sandwiches while the sun goes down in a dusty blaze of glory.

They’ll get through this. They’ll be more than orphans.

It’s just this moment that seems too difficult to bear.

He just needs to go downstairs right now. Get himself off this couch and go downstairs and get ready for dinner and then, then figure out how to close the place, what they’re going to do, how they’re going to move, the legalities of...

“You’re thinking too loud,” Raleigh says, righting himself, and slides into Yancy’s lap, bracing himself up against the back of the sofa. “Don’t.”

“Rals...”

“Don’t,” Raleigh whispers against Yancy’s mouth. “Stay here with me, okay man?”

Of their own volition, Yancy’s arms wrap around his brother’s waist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not... super happy with this, but anything more didn't seem to fit? IDK. Maybe a PWP in here somewhere about the Vegas trip. 
> 
> And (for all you nice people who've been so supportive) I met a guy. Nice, cute, hasn't tried to grope me yet or tell me I'm predisposed to be a whore cause of the hair color. Doesn't mind the unorganized insanity that is my brain. I suspect he might be too good for me. Still. *fingers crossed*


End file.
